Eleven. Eleven years since so many families were shattered, so many lives lost, our collective being attacked. That day is still as brilliantly clear in my mind as the sky was that day - I'm sure it always will be, much like the memories of those who heard the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor or the assassination of John F. Kennedy. And I, like so many of you, look at my children today, and sometimes wish the visions of smoke and fire and tears and falling buildings were things I'd only seen in a movie or read about in a horror novel.
Every year since 2001, at sundown on this day, four candles are lit in our home. The two red ones, lit first, are for the Twin Towers in the Big Apple that is NYC. The blue one, lit third, is for those lost at the Pentagon. And the last to be lit, the white candle, is for those on United 93 who somehow were able to regain enough control over their situation and forced the plane to crash down in a field in Pennsylvania rather than harming any more innocents that horrible, horrible day.
We must never forget.