chapter 1: sad talk

My mom found this yesterday and the timing was almost spooky. This was the first chapter of a book I had cleverly titled "My Book About My Life". I don't remember much about September 11. I wish I had written more. But I remember now not knowing a thing about what had happened for a long, long time. So I don't really blame six year old Sophie. I remember where I was, though. The exact room in my elementary school.

But it doesn't matter where I was. I had nothing to do with it. I don't have a story. The people with stories are those who actually were there, actually lost people, actually saw the smoke rise up. There are people that were a part of this, a part of this horrible thing, and those are the important stories.

It just makes me wonder about America when, for 364 days of the year, we bitch and moan and scream at each other, harping on everything that's wrong with the country, and then for just one of those days, everybody is universally united, no matter what. On this day, we're respectful. We're together and we're actually a country. But come September 12, everyone's back to being cynics. It's admirable that so many people can come together on one day, but then again, it's pretty disgusting that so many people can come together on only one day.

But on a less pessimistic note, let us all remember those victims and those who gave their lives to save the lives of others. Today and every day.

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