Another anniversary...

September 11th. In this liberal Western city, the anniversary mostly brings up anger or passivity. We're too far from New York to really feel the sting 3 years later. We're too wrapped up in the politics to feel the raw emotion of the event anymore.

But it's a hard day for me. A hard week. A hard month.

My father died in a fishing accident on September 13, 1996. I was 17 then. My brother was twelve. Two days before the 5th anniversary of my father's death, my then boyfriend and I were living in Oakland, California, getting ready to commute to our jobs in San Francisco. He was in the shower, and I flipped on the Today show just after the first plane had hit. I remember the surprise, then the vibrant pain, of watching the tragedy unfold. We sat dumbstruck in front of the television for hours.

The New York Times had an article this morning on the kids whose parents died on September 11th. I wept my way through it. They're growing up, getting through it. But still aware of how different their lives are from their peers.

From the article:

"Leaving home isn't just about leaving home, it's about leaving their mother who was left by their father," said Dr. Cloitre. "Every teenager goes through a difficult period when they first fall in love and lose that love, but what is it going to be like for someone who has lost a parent? They know the worst that can happen when you lose someone."

I don't pretend to understand what these kids went through. Their grief was shared, exploited and then replayed for them a hundred thousand times. I don't have to fear news reports or feel anger that what killed my father has been analyzed, politicized and marketed all over the world.

But I know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night feeling lost and lonely, and wanting absolutely nothing more than to be held by my father again.

So, to those kids: I'm thinking about you. Hoping that you're okay.