This point comes around every year, but ten is an important number. This week I was reviewing applicants to live in my building and noticed one of them was born on September 11, 1991. Ten years ago, she was ten years old. It sort of blew my mind for no particular reason.
Recently I haven’t been able to get two thoughts out of my head:
The first is none of my friends ever really spoke to each other about September 11. Perhaps we weren’t emotionally equipped to talk about it then, and maybe we will never reach that point. But it just washed over us. By not talking about it (even with the people who lost someone), I suspect we let it take over a small chunk of our lives. It often gapes at me like some kind of unfinished business. As if there is something I should be doing or saying, but I don’t know what exactly I’m supposed to do.
The second is how weird the world has seemed since Bin Laden was killed. For so long it was easy to build a corner of my consciousness around the idea that he was out there, and that our daily lives were an affront to him. Every day I lived my American-Zionist-capitalist life was a thrilling rebuke. And having latent anger towards someone distant — almost like a ghost from the start — was a great motivator for any of those big-picture goals I've worked for over the past ten years. Now it feels like something is missing.
It was always a matter of time before he died. And I always wondered where I would be when I heard. The last place I expected was on a plane to Spain hearing the news from the pilot over the PA system. It was absolutely a top-ten most shocking moment of my life. Comparable to the sound of the first plane. I could feel an ounce of lingering anger drain out of me, and I’m not sure what should replace it. If my kids ever ask and I choose to talk about it with them, does the story really end here?
Is it finally over? Are we ready for it to be over?


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