On this day each year I am overcome by nostalgia and memory. Thirteen years ago I was celebrating a milestone anniversary with friends. We were sailing in the Aegean Sea, living a dream I’d had since studying ancient Greece in the ninth grade.
On September 10 we were in Mykonos. We had a wonderful dinner, dancing — even on the tables — and laughing. The next day we went to a convenience store for some small thing and the TV was on. I was waiting outside when my husband rushed out and told me about the first plane. I was incredulous. I almost didn’t believe him. The store owner tuned to CNN in English for us. We were watching as the second plane hit. Then we knew it was no accident — an act of war, I said at the time.
In the evening we decided to go back to the same place for dinner. A difference of night and day. As we walked in, the owners offered their condolences. There was no music and the mood was somber. We ate quietly and the entire restaurant observed a few minutes of silence. Some of us had children who worked near the WTC, so the next few days we were all wracked with anxiety until we knew they were all right.
Time heals, but the scar remains.