Where were you?

It's the question of the day. Where were you that fateful day, 8 years ago, when those towers fell? When the Pentagon was attacked? When a planeful of heroes went down in that Pennsylvania field?

I watched this morning the re-run of the original newscasts from September 11th. It still makes my heart hurt and fills my face with tears. Those images are seered in my memory. Remember those lost-and-found boards, growing more tattered throughout the week? They break my heart. Wind-whipped flyers, asking out "Have You Seen Me?" into the grey New York sky.

And the good side, too, though it seems hard to say that there could be a good side and almost crass to recall one. The goodwill, the altruistic human love that happened then. We were all in this together. Even Rosie O'Donnell was proud of George W. Bush! Strange, I know.

That day seemed so ordinary. My daughter was 4 and I was taking her to the pediatrician for a check up. When I came out of the appointment, I noticed the staff was acting strangely. Something was certainly going on, but I didn't know what. On my way home from the doctor, I listened to the radio. At just that time, the second tower was collapsing. I felt desperate and sick to hear what was happening. Once I was home, I did what most everyone else did: called my husband, called a few friends and then gawked at the TV for days, sobbed, prayed and despaired.

I wear my flag shirt today. I left the news on, wanting my kids to see the news, wanting them to connect even a little with how it was that day. But I know they do not really get it. You have to live it yourself before you really see.