On this day, may we remember not the pain, the horror, the disbelief, but the swelling pride in our hearts when, on this day, we say, “I am an American.”
That is what we must never forget.
A poem:
September Twelve, Ten AM
Trust him who quivers among the wicked, wild clatter:
Because he understands
The urge of one second
And how much, to a man,
Each threatening step matters.
Thank he who quietly answers the worn, wretched call:
There is strength in his eyes
As he charges ahead
Toward lit sacrifice.
Nothing has left me so empty at all.
Mary's One Hundred 