Flanked by row upon row of flagpoles set five feet apart, we can stretch out our arms to touch two lives at a time, lest we forget what happened on September 11, 2001. The 9.11 memorial in Tempe, Arizona, is heartbreakingly beautiful, each one of its 2,996 flags signifying a life taken on that horrific autumn morning. 

We first visited the memorial in 2012. I remember watching as my daughter walked away from me, a somber and solitary figure cutting a new path deep into the Healing Field of red, white, and blue. I was undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature in it. I had to force myself to look away to remember the way we were that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school. And in that blink of an eye, she vanished into the field of flags. Instinctively I knew she was not lost, but the very thought of it is still what scares me most.

In 2001, September 11th fell on a Tuesday and began with a little girl only a few months older than mine, boarding United Airlines Flight 175. Just four years old, Juliana Valentine McCourt, and her mother, an Irish immigrant, 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 trips from Phoenix to Newark, Newark to Belfast, and back again.

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

We have the same hands. We love dark chocolate-covered almonds, pancakes, and the smell of books. We love two little chihuahuas that compete for our attention. We binge-watch Netflix originals  – me on Ozark, she on re-runs of Law and Order.  We love each other and know we 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 we forget.

Juliana and her mother died on September 11, 2001, on the plane that plunged through the South Tower of the World Trade Center with horrifying velocity.  In Washington, D.C., Dana and Zoe Falkenberg died too. Just 3 and 8, they had boarded American Airlines Flight 77 with their parents, beginning a dream trip to Australia. And then when terrorists hijacked their plane and crashed it into the Pentagon, they were gone too. So many dead, so many names:

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

The colorful tulle butterflies attached to the flagpoles in the Healing Field and the stuffed bears on the grass remind me again that terrorism is an awful equalizer. Children, parents, grandparents, and those without names or families or homes or good health – it matters not –  in a terrorist attack, they are all legitimate targets.

In the Field every year there are shows of patriotism and silent prayers for the dead; a mournful “Taps” pierces the desert air and then Amazing Grace.

Yellow ribbons wrapped around and around those flagpoles encircling the field represent the valor of those “first responders,” whose duty is to protect and serve those within.  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.

In cities here and 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 be in college now, Disneyland days with her mom perhaps less appealing than thoughts of a new car or a part-time job to help pay for tuition. Such a trajectory is only in my imagination. For Juliana, there was no Disneyland, no first day of school, no soft place to fall.

So we will remember them. We will lower our flags and watch again the footage of the World Trade Center’s final moments on television retrospectives. Our politicians will pay their respects after which some of them will resume campaign trails that are not always respectful.

9.11 is history.

My daughter tells me that in her final year of high school not one of her teachers remembered it 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.

“The Names” is in dedication to all the victims of September 11 and their survivors. Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy Collins, is one of those brilliant poets who uses words and rhythms to cut through with clarity and compassion to the heart of a matter, right when we need it most:

The Names – Billy Collins