Remembering

The house we live in is just down the street from the Fire Station.  We can see it easily from our front porch.  We can hear the alarms ring from inside our house.  Sometimes the trucks turn on their sirens before leaving the neighborhood, which of course we can also hear.  The kids wave at the friendly firefighters as they drive past or when we see them out washing their trucks.  We haven't paid them a visit yet, but I'm sure we will.

Like everyone else in the country, today my mind keeps drifting back to what happened on September 11, 2001.  I woke up today, unaware of the date at first.  It was just another weekday.  But once I realized, I've thought of little else.

Today, when my kids get home from school, I think we'll take a walk down the street to the Fire Station.  We won't go in or bother anyone, just stand out front and look.  I want to discuss with them what happened 11 years ago.  I won't show them any footage, but maybe a photo or two so they can grasp that it was all very real.

I don't have the words to express how I'm feeling today.  I'm not sad or depressed, yet I feel myself fighting back tears often and talking in a calmer, more quiet way. 

Somber.  Maybe that's the word.

I step outside and look up and down our street and am disappointed to only see a couple of flags flying.  I wish our house had a flag pole.  I'd fly a flag everyday.

I want to march up to that Fire Station and personally shake the hands of each and every firefighter there.  I want to say 'thank you' to them, tears and all.

I want to express my gratitude to every peace officer in the area.     

I just couldn't shake the urge to do something.  I needed to show my appreciation SOMEHOW.  So I dug through every unopened box in my garage until I found my flag. 

It's old, torn, stained and has a few holes, but I think it's beautiful.

I can see it from where I'm sitting to write this, hanging just outside the window.

And seeing it there has made me feel a little bit better today.