Seven years ago, I was making breakfast and my husband called me. He never calls me so early, so I knew something was wrong when I heard the phone ring and saw the caller ID.
A plane crashed into the World Trade Center? What a terrible accident!
Then, I turned on the TV in time to witness the second plane crash.
This is no accident; this is terrorism. It's in New York, though. We're okay here.
When the plane crashed into the Pentagon, I began to worry because my town is the home of CentCom.
They're hitting military targets, too. Will they come here? Maybe they will, but will fall short of their target and hit us. Are we far enough from the base to be out of harm's way? Please protect our Airmen.
I spent the rest of day praying and worrying - alone with my babies. They were five and three at the time and addicted to the Disney Channel. I kept that on in the family room - all day - and would sneak into my bedroom to get updates from the TV in there. I tried to protect them from the terrible images on TV. I couldn't get a hold of anyone on the phone. I was twenty-five years old, but I felt so young and afraid.
Please bring H home soon. Soon! I don't want to be alone...
September 11 was followed by September 12 and 13, but I felt like time had stopped. Many people mourned quickly and moved on; I felt it was impossible to move forward. I even wondered whether we should celebrate D's birthday eleven days later. It seemed disrespectful to celebrate. America seemed too vulnerable to think of anything, save self-protection.
All of yesterday went by and not once did I remember those who were sacrificed by terrorists on 9/11. Every day we live our lives as though there was no September 11, 2001. When was the last time I thought of any of the dead? Shouldn't we remember them more often?
Two years ago, I participated in Project 2,996. This year, I didn't even think about that memorial project 'til now. Here is my memorial post from 2006:
I Remember Ching Ping Tung
Ching Ping Tung was at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001 but he never returned home again.
Ching was one of the 2,996 people who died in the terrorist attacks that day. Unlike many of the other victims, there is very little information about Ching. Some accounts say he was 43, others say he was 44. All sources list his home as New York City. Beyond those basic facts, Ching's life is nearly unknown. Not even a photograph of Ching is available. I know, though, that he was someone's son, that his life was cut short, and that he died an unnatural death. I also know he lived in a world that no longer exists, a world where Americans go to work and travel without fear and planes don't crash into skyscrapers.
On this, the fifth anniversary of his death, I remember Ching Ping Tung. He is my husband, my son, my neighbor, my friend. I see his reflection in the mirror. He is a part of all of us who live on. His life may be a mystery, but his death will never be forgotten.
May he rest in peace.
But his death was forgotten. By me. I'm very sorry, Ching. I broke my promise.
Am I the only one who forgets?
Do you remember?
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