The sky above Lake Chapala is blue this morning. I wonder is this the same blue that hung over the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. Cloudless, infinite—and in the parlance of aviation—it was a “severe clear” sky.  Intensely blue with seemingly unlimited visibility and air so pure, such a sky can blind a pilot.  With the previous day’s storms blown away from New York city that morning, it was the quintessential Severe Clear sky. Conditions were perfect for the ordinary travel that would take thousands of people to business meetings and conferences and end-of-summer vacations.

A little girl only a few months older than mine was on board United Airlines Flight 175 that morning. Just four years old and a nature-lover, little Juliana Valentine McCourt, and her mother, an Irish immigrant from Cork, were on their way to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth. They were close. Close. Like my daughter and me on our numerous trips from Phoenix to Newark, Newark to Belfast, and back again. Close. Even when rendered illogical and unreasonable, she by adolescent hormones, me by the unrelenting effects of cancer treatment, we were – and we remain – close. Two peas in a pod.

Sophie and I have the same piano hands. We love Sephora and dark chocolate-covered almonds, mashed potatoes, the smell of books, Derry Girls, and the little dogs that love us. We are ‘friends’ on Facebook and Instagram, where I have promised not to gush too much in ways that embarrass her. We binge-watch – for me it’s The Bear or Yellowstone, while she is on re-runs of Law and Order, and most recently, Breaking Bad, which she tells me holds up well even after all these years.  She’s in Arizona, I’m in Mexico, and we love each other madly, bound forever by knowing that we once filled the heart of the man who died when we were far away from him and from home one November a decade ago.

We’re not pessimistic. We’re not. We just know the other shoe can drop at any time. As such, we’re ready for it. Then again, we also tell ourselves that that kind of thing is the kind of thing that only happens to someone else.

I watched on TV when United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Juliana and her mother and everyone on board died instantly.   In Washington, D.C., sisters  Dana and Zoe Falkenberg, died too when terrorists hijacked their plane and crashed it into the Pentagon. Just 3 and 8, they had boarded American Airlines Flight 77 with their parents to begin the long journey to a new life in Australia. Surveillance footage from Dulles airport would later reveal that little Dana Falkenberg was carrying an Elmo teddy bear. Also on their flight, three exceptional 6th grade students, traveling with their teachers to the Channel Islands Marine Sanctuary on a special trip awarded  by National Geographic.

“Every one of the victims who died on September 11^th was the most important person on earth to somebody.”

–President George W. Bush, 12/11/01

Until that too-bright morning, I suppose I had taken for granted the sense of security I felt as an immigrant who had traded Northern Ireland for the United States of America. Foolishly, I had too quickly dropped my guard, forgetting anything can and does happen. I had reached that point where I’d almost stopped reassuring myself that the sound of a car backfiring on the freeway was not a gunshot; that a clap of Monsoon thunder in the mountains was not a bomb timed to go off in the heart of a village on the busiest shopping day of the year; and that a backpack forgotten on the bus was not packed with explosives.

Twenty years ago, my daughter and I first visited The Healing Field, a 9.11 memorial in Tempe, Arizona, heart-achingly beautiful, each of its 2,996 flags a reminder of a life taken.  Wordless, undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature within it as she walked deep into a field of red, white and blue, I forced myself to look up and away, to recollect the way we had been that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school. To remember the blueness of the sky …

In a blink of an eye, Sophie is out of sight, deep in the Healing field. Row upon row of flagpoles are set five feet apart enabling us to stretch out our arms and touch two lives at a time, lest we forget what happened.

From somewhere, a mournful “Taps” pierces the air and then Amazing Grace.

Out of sight.

Under that expanse of desert sky, I knew my daughter was not lost. I also knew that such a thought is the one that scares me most.

---

Colorful tulle butterflies are attached to the flagpoles in the Healing Field. Stuffed bears sit on the grass. Yellow ribbons wrapped around those flagpoles encircling the field represent the valor of those “first responders,” those sworn to protect and serve those within.  Ribbons, blue as that September morning sky are wound around flagpoles in the heart of the Field, for the flight crew members who perished. And, on the grass, for the veterans who perished that day, pair after pair of combat boots.

On the anniversary of September 11th 2001, from New York to  Arizona, and in cities across the globe, wreaths are laid, bells ring out, and names are rubbed in pencil on cherished scraps of paper.

We say their names. 

Juliana Valentine McCourt.

She would have graduated from college by now, trips to Disneyland perhaps less appealing than thoughts of a new car or a promotion.  Such a trajectory is only in my imagination. For Juliana, there was no Disneyland, no first day of school, no soft place to fall.

For a moment or more on September 11, we remember those lost. We fly our flags at half-mast and watch as footage of the World Trade Center’s final moments are replayed on television retrospectives. Keyboard warriors wax conspiratorial about what they think “really” happened at the Pentagon. Politicians pay their respects before they resume election campaign trails that are not always respectful. Family members of 9/11 victims gather on the Memorial plaza in New York to read aloud the names of those killed in the 9/11 attacks and in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Others carry out personal observances.

9.11 is history.

I remember that on September 11 in my daughter’s  final year of high school, not one of her teachers remembered 9-11 out loud. Ostensibly, it was no different than the day before, no different than September 10, 2001, when Ruth McCourt was packing for a trip to Disneyland with her daughter, Juliana.

I read on Facebook or Instagram that on September 10, 2001 “246 people went to sleep in preparation for their morning flights. 2,606 people went to sleep in preparation for work in the morning. 343 firefighters went to sleep in preparation for their next shift. 60 police officers went to sleep in preparation for morning patrol. 8 paramedics went to sleep in preparation for their morning shift of saving lives and 1 K9 went to bed a good boy. None of them saw past 10:00 am the next morning ”

Someone will say all their names today.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. 

---

“The Names” is in dedication to all the victims of September 11 and their survivors.

The Names – Billy Collins

The sky above my house in Mexico is blue this morning, the kind of blue sky that hung above the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. Cloudless, infinite—and in the parlance of aviation—a “severe clear” sky.  Intensely blue with seemingly unlimited visibility and air so pure, it can blind a pilot.  With the previous day’s storms blown away from New York city, it was the quintessential Severe Clear morning – a perfect morning for the ordinary travel that would take thousands of people to business meetings and conferences and end-of-summer vacations.

A little girl only a few months older than mine was on board United Airlines Flight 175. Just four years old and a nature-lover, little Juliana Valentine McCourt, and her mother, an Irish immigrant from Cork, were on their way to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth. They were close.

Close. Like my daughter and me on our numerous trips from Phoenix to Newark, Newark to Belfast, and back again. Close. Even when rendered illogical and unreasonable, she by adolescent hormones, me by the effects of cancer treatment, we were – and remain – close, like peas in a pod.

We have the same piano hands. We love Sephora and dark chocolate-covered almonds, mashed potatoes, the smell of books, Derry Girls and the little dogs that love us. We are ‘friends’ on Facebook and Instagram, where I have promised not to gush too much in ways that embarrass her. We binge-watch Netflix originals  – me on The Bear or Yellowstone, she on re-runs of Law and Order, and most recently, Breaking Bad, which she tells me holds up really well after all these years.  She’s in Arizona, I’m in Mexico, and we love each other madly, bound forever by knowing that we once filled the heart of the man who died when we were far away from him and home one November a decade ago.

We’re not pessimistic; we just know the other shoe can drop at any time. We’re ready for it, but sometimes we tell ourselves that that kind of thing is the kind of thing that only happens to someone else.

I watched on TV when United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Juliana and her mother and everyone on board died instantly.   In Washington, D.C., sisters  Dana and Zoe Falkenberg, died too when terrorists hijacked their plane and crashed it into the Pentagon. Just 3 and 8, they had boarded American Airlines Flight 77 with their parents and their favorite stuffed animals to begin the long journey to a new life in Australia. Also on their flight, three exceptional 6th grade students, traveling with their teachers to the Channel Islands Marine Sanctuary on a special trip awarded  by National Geographic.

Surveillance footage from Dulles airport would subsequently reveal that little Dana Falkenberg was carrying an Elmo teddy bear – a lasting reminder of the hijackers’ littlest victims.

“Every one of the victims who died on September 11^th was the most important person on earth to somebody.”

–President George W. Bush, 12/11/01

Until that too-bright morning, I suppose I had taken for granted the sense of security I felt as an immigrant who had traded Northern Ireland for the United States. Foolishly, I had too quickly dropped my guard, forgetting anything can and does happen. I had almost stopped reassuring myself that the sound of a car backfiring on the freeway was not a gunshot; that a clap of Monsoon thunder in the mountains was not a bomb timed to go off in the heart of a village on the busiest day of the year; and  that a shopping bag left behind on the bus was not packed with explosives.

Twenty years ago, my daughter and I first visited The Healing Field, a 9.11 memorial in Tempe, Arizona, heart achingly beautiful, each of its 2,996 flags a reminder of a life taken.  Wordless, undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature within it as she walked deep into a field of red, white and blue, I forced myself to look up and away, to recollect the way we had been that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school. To remember the blueness of the sky …

In a blink of an eye, Sophie is out of sight, deep in the Healing field, where row upon row of flagpoles set five feet apart enable us to stretch out our arms and touch two lives at a time, lest we forget what happened. From somewhere, a mournful “Taps” pierces the air and then Amazing Grace.

Out of sight.

Under that expanse of desert sky, I knew my daughter was not lost. I also knew that such a thought is the one that scares me most.

---

Colorful tulle butterflies are attached to the flagpoles in the Healing Field. Stuffed bears sit on the grass. Yellow ribbons wrapped around those flagpoles encircling the field represent the valor of those “first responders,” those sworn to protect and serve those within.  Ribbons, blue as that September morning sky are wound around flagpoles in the heart of the Field, for the flight crew members who perished. And, on the grass, for all the veterans who perished that day, pair after pair of combat boots.

On the anniversary of September 11th 2001, from New York to  Arizona, and in cities across the globe, wreaths are laid, bells ring out, and names are rubbed in pencil on cherished scraps of paper.

We say their names. 

Juliana Valentine McCourt.

She would have graduated from college by now, trips to Disneyland perhaps less appealing than thoughts of a new car or a promotion.  Such a trajectory is only in my imagination. For Juliana, there was no Disneyland, no first day of school, no soft place to fall.

For a moment or more on September 11, we remember those lost, our flags flying at half-mast, footage of the World Trade Center’s final moments replayed on television retrospectives. Keyboard warriors wax conspiratorial about what they think “really” happened at the Pentagon. Politicians pay their respects after which some of them will resume election campaign trails that are not always respectful. Family members of 9/11 victims will gather on the Memorial plaza in New York to read aloud the names of those killed in the 9/11 attacks and in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Others will plan personal observances.

9.11 is history.

My daughter recently told me that in her final year of high school not one of her teachers remembered 9-11 out loud. Ostensibly, it was no different than the day before, no different than September 10, 2001, when Ruth McCourt was packing for a trip to Disneyland with her daughter, Juliana.

Someone will say her name—all the names.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. 

---

---

“The Names” is in dedication to all the victims of September 11 and their survivors.

The Names – Billy Collins

Severe clear: an aviation term airline pilots use to describe a bright blue sky with seemingly unlimited visibility.

---

Twenty years ago, my daughter and I first visited The Healing Field, a 9.11 memorial in Tempe, Arizona, heartachingly beautiful, each of its 2,996 flags a reminder of  a life taken.  Wordless, undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature within it as she walked deep into a field of red, white and blue, I forced myself to look up and away,  to recollect the way we had been that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school, to remember the blueness of the sky.

In that blink of an eye, she is out of sight, deep in the Healing field, where row upon row of flagpoles set five feet apart enable us to stretch out our arms and touch two lives at a time, lest we forget what happened. From somewhere, a mournful “Taps” pierces the air and then Amazing Grace.

Out of sight.

Under that big desert sky, I knew my daughter was not lost. I know the very thought is still what scares me most.

---

Twenty one years ago,  September 11th arrived on a Tuesday, and for a little girl only a few months older than mine, it began with her boarding United Airlines Flight 175. Just four years old, nature-lover Juliana Valentine McCourt, and her mother, an Irish immigrant from Cork, were on their way to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth.

Juliana and her mom were best friends, close as sisters. They were traveling together to California.

Close. Like my daughter and me on our numerous trips from Phoenix to Newark, Newark to Belfast, and back again.

Close. Even when rendered illogical and unreasonable, she by raging adolescent hormones, me by the effects of cancer treatment, I recall we were – and are – as two peas in a pod.

We have the same piano hands. We love Sephora and dark chocolate-covered almonds, mashed potatoes, and the smell of books, Derry Girls and our dogs. We follow each other on Facebook and Instagram, where I have promised not to gush too much in ways that will only embarrass her. We binge-watch Netflix originals  – me on Ozark or Yellowstone, she on re-runs of Law and Order, and most recently, Breaking Bad, which  she tells me holds up really well after all these years.  She’s in Arizona, I’m in Mexico, and we love each other madly, bound forever by the knowledge that we once filled the heart of the man who died when we were far away from him and home one November.

We know anything can happen, but sometimes, like everyone else, we forget.

---

Juliana and her mother died on the plane that plunged through the South Tower of the World Trade Center with horrifying velocity.  In Washington, D.C., sisters, Dana and Zoe Falkenberg, died too when terrorists hijacked their plane and crashed it into the Pentagon. Just 3 and 8, they had boarded American Airlines Flight 77 with their parents and their favorite stuffed animals looking forward to a new life in Australia. Also on their Flight, three exceptional 6th grade students  traveling with their teachers to Channel Islands Marine Sanctuary on a special trip awarded  by National Geographic. Surveillance footage from Dulles airport would subsequently reveal that little Dana Falkenberg was carrying an Elmo teddy bear – a lasting reminder of the hijackers’ littlest victims.

“Every one of the victims who died on September 11^th was the most important person on earth to somebody.”

–President George W. Bush, 12/11/01

All gone.

So many dead, so many names:

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart

Reminders that terrorism is an awful equalizer, colorful tulle butterflies are attached to the flagpoles in the Healing Field. Stuffed bears sit on the grass. For the terrorist, children, parents, grandparents, and those without names or families or homes or good health are all legitimate targets.

Yellow ribbons wrapped around and around those flagpoles encircling the field represent the valor of those “first responders,” those sworn to protect and serve those within.  Bright ribbons as blue as that September morning sky are wound around flagpoles in the heart of the Field, for the flight crew members who perished. And, on the grass, for all the veterans who perished that day, pair after pair of combat boots.

Today, from New York to  Arizona, and in cities across the globe, wreaths are laid, bells ring out, and names are rubbed in pencil on cherished scraps of paper.

We say their names. 

Juliana Valentine McCourt.

She would have graduated from college by now, Disneyland days with her mom perhaps less appealing than thoughts of a new car or a promotion.  Such a trajectory is only in my imagination. For Juliana, there was no Disneyland, no first day of school, no soft place to fall.

We will remember her. We will remember them all, as we lower our flags and watch again the footage of the World Trade Center’s final moments on television retrospectives. Keyboard warriors will wax conspiratorial about missing footage of what they think happened at the Pentagon. Politicians will pay their respects after which some of them will resume election campaign trails that are not always respectful. Family members of 9/11 victims will gather on the Memorial plaza in New York to read aloud the names of those killed in the 9/11 attacks and in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Others will plan personal observances.

9.11 is history.

My daughter told me that in her final year of high school not one of her teachers remembered 9-11 out loud. Ostensibly, it was no different than the day before, no different than September 10, 2001, when Ruth McCourt was packing for a trip to Disneyland with her daughter, Juliana.

Today, someone will say her name – all the names.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. 

---

---

“The Names” is in dedication to all the victims of September 11 and their survivors.

The Names – Billy Collins