Life changing

We think we remember the feeling exactly, but we don’t.

The attacks on 9/11 were the sort of mind-freezing tragedies that human brains work hard to minimize. To remember it all precisely is too hard for most of us.

What comes rushing back to me is the memory of how urgently I felt pulled toward home that day. I was driving from a friend’s place on Cape Cod, skirting Boston to get to New Hampshire, where we lived at the time. My partner was at a conference in Boston, and left there just ahead of the orders to shut down the many tunnels and main highways. I knew it might not be the smartest move to be driving on major arterials not far from a big airport, but I was determined to get to that small nest of ours, with an address on “Liberty Street” of all places.

We both made it. We checked on all our New York loved ones. We sat glued to the television for what seemed like days.

Commentators today are remarking on the solidarity we Americans felt on that day in 2001, and for some weeks and months afterward. They inevitably get around to bemoaning the distance that grew up later, the way many things returned to the bad-old-days as the flag stickers on our cars faded and peeled.

I want to remember other things. The remarkable heroism of so many people at the attack sites. The gratitude I felt when we both got home. The decision we made soon after to move together to the Pacific Northwest, rather than live 3,000 miles apart for a few months while I started a job in Seattle. Instead of that admittedly more prudent plan, my partner left his job and we went together. Life is short, we said. We need to stick together.