Growing up I would overhear conversation after conversation where grownups discussed and reminisced where they were when they heard that president Kennedy had been shot. Elementary band, school cafeteria. Bound together by stunned grief and unbelief, through story they quietly were telling one another, "I was scared when I thought we were so safe." And in those commiserations came the answer, "It's okay, we all were scared." Similar story, recalled memories, pasts alike.
And now the question for our generation has become, "Where were you when you heard about the twin towers?" Now, sadly, my friends and I have stories of our own to tell. How tragedy on a national level, so deeply affected us in small intimate ways. When we tell our stories, of going to class, turning on the radio in our dorm, hearing from friends in the dining hall...we are really whispering our own narratives of fear and disbelief.
And they say the best revenge is living well. Maybe that is what drove us to claim September 11th as another anniversary. Maybe it was the fact that there was this amazing, cute, funny guy who was interested in going for a walk with me. Maybe I just didn't want to wait one more day to start life and share time with this guy. But for whatever reason, 9-11. September 11th 2002, to be exact, means something else to me.
It was 6 years ago today that Nathan and I started a relationship. You know...the DTR. It had been five months since our first conversation. One month since we started hanging out regularly. And he asked me to go for a walk.
It was after chapel service for summit week and I remember that it was chilly. Almost a caricature of collegiate fall weather. Crisp, musky, lovely. And we walked around and around our little campus. Through shadows, over leaves. And we weaved together hopes and dreams. Shared nervous vulnerability. Started something new.
It would be another few weeks before he asked to hold my hand. Another month and a week before we shared a first kiss. Nine months before he would tell me he loved me. A year and a month before he asked me to marry him. One year and 10 months before we vowed to spend the rest of our lives loving each other.
And now it's been six years. Sometimes after we turn out the light we roll to the middle and ask each other if it really seems like six years. I tell him, "You have been a part of my whole life."
So, while I somberly remember the grief of those who were lost, or those who did the losing 7 years ago. What I choose to celebrate on this day is what I gained. Six years spent learning to love. A new story to replace the great loss the world suffered. And from the rubble of fear and pain sprung tender hope and a brave beginning.
And I think, maybe, that is the greatest memorial anyone could ask for.
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