9-11 is History to Them. A Memory to Me.

Twenty-five years ago this morning, I boarded my regular 8:15 a.m. United flight from LaGuardia to Denver.

I made that trip all the time. Don and I were living in Connecticut. I was working for Einstein Bros. Bagels and traveled frequently to our corporate office in Colorado. Don worked in advertising in New York City.

We didn't have Elli yet. What we didn't know, was that eight weeks later, on November 5, she would be born in China and would eventually become our daughter. My boarding pass is taped in my purple diary. It became part of our adoption story.

That morning, though, it was just another Tuesday.

Until it wasn't.

Somewhere in the air, our plane changed course. We were told we were being diverted to Chicago, but no one would tell us why.

At first, I was annoyed.

I had a meeting in Denver. I couldn't get my cell phone to work. I was going to be late.

It's strange to think about that now.

Eventually, another passenger got through to someone on his phone. He stood up and told us a plane had hit the World Trade Center.

We thought it was an accident.

There were no smartphones or Wi-Fi. We were learning what was happening from the few passengers who could get calls through to people on the ground.

Then I looked out the window and saw Air Force jets escorting our plane.

That's when I remember being a little uneasy. Not scared. Because I didn't yet know the gravity of the situation.

But more than anything, I remember desperately trying to reach Don.

He worked in Manhattan and had pulled another all-nighter at the office. I didn't know exactly where he was that morning. For hours, I didn't know if he was safe.

When we landed at O'Hare, the airport had been evacuated.

Imagine one of the busiest airports in the world completely empty.

No crowds. No restaurants. No televisions. Just our small group of passengers walking through an enormous, silent airport. This is when we all knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong. 

My brother Dave lived outside Chicago and came to get me. I honestly don't know what I would have done if he didn't live there. Hotels were booked. People were panicking, making arrangements. 

When we got to his house we were all glued to the TV. In complete disbelief at what we were seeing. I still had not reached Don. To say I was scared would be an understatement. 

We finally reached each other that afternoon. What a relief to hear his voice.

He was safe.

I was safe.

His journey home was not easy, as everything in the city was shut down. He described it like it was an apocalypse.

I remember thinking that all I wanted was to get home and hug him. (It would take three more days and an Avis rental car to get me back to Connecticut.)

Not everyone got that phone call.

The day before, I'd played tennis with my new friend Meredith. She told us about the beautiful farmhouse she and her husband, Peter, had just bought in Wilton. Their dream house. They had two little girls.

Peter worked in the World Trade Center.

He never came home.

In the 25 years since that day, so many more stories have been told.

The children who lost parents have grown up. Some remember their mom or dad. Some were babies and have no memories of them at all. Some hadn't even been born yet.

They've graduated. Started careers. Fallen in love. Gotten married. Had children of their own.

They've lived entire lives their parents never got to see.

I think about that when I think about Meredith's girls. They were little girls when they lost their dad. They're grown women now.

Twenty-five years is a very long time.

And sometimes, no time at all.

Don and I have since visited the 9/11 Memorial and Museum in New York.

It's difficult to describe how moving it is to stand where the towers once stood. To run your hand over the names surrounding the memorial pools. To hear the water falling. To see the photographs of the people who died.

And then you walk through the museum and see pieces recovered from that day. Twisted steel. Personal belongings. Things that were once part of an ordinary Tuesday.

They're called artifacts now.

Artifacts.

That word stops me.

Artifacts belong to history.

And I suppose that's what September 11, 2001 is now.

History.

On one of the walls are the words:

“No day shall erase you from the memory of time.”

Twenty-five years later, that feels exactly right.

Because for those of us who lived through that day, it doesn't always feel like history.

I can still picture my seat on that plane. I remember the confusion when we changed course. I remember looking out the window and seeing the military jets. I remember walking through an empty O'Hare. I remember trying over and over to reach Don.

And I remember the relief when I finally heard his voice.

An entire generation has now grown up knowing September 11 only as something that happened before they were born.

They see the photographs. Watch the videos. Visit the museum. Read the names. Learn about it in school.

History to them. A memory to us.

September 11 changed our country. It changed the way we travel. It changed the way we think about safety. It changed the world.

And for thousands of families, it changed absolutely everything.

Today I'll think about Peter. I'll think about Meredith and their girls. I'll think about all the people who went to work or boarded an airplane that morning, believing it was just another Tuesday.

And I'll be grateful for something that seemed so simple to me that afternoon 25 years ago.

I got to go home.

I got my hug.

And I've been given 25 more years of ordinary days with the people I love.

Maybe that's what I understand differently now.

The ordinary days aren't ordinary at all.

Never forget. ❤️

Here are a few photos from our visit to the memorial in 2017.