Tales of Ordinary Madness

Today is September 11, 2005. Four years since the world changed for many Americans, myself included. As my wife would remind me the world didn’t actually change, we just had our rose colored glasses ripped violently from our faces and we were left staring dumbfound, directly into the harsh sun.

For the last two years, I have made the trip to Shanksville, PA in Somerset county which is the final resting place of United Flight 93. I had initially planned to visit the Pentagon this year, until I learned that the memorial had been turned into a walk to support the troops. I do support the troops, I want everyone of them return home safe and sound right now, but I don’t believe that what they are doing in Iraq has much to do with terrorism or 9/11. I suggested to Jess that this year I would go to the Pentagon, next year the World Trade Center and then I would tie this all into a nice little bow and send it on it’s way. After all it’s been four years, isn’t it time that I get over it.

The reality is that I’m not over it. The memories of standing alone in the dark of the burnt out hull of the Pentagon with the water dripping from the ceiling and the smell of jet fuel overpowering the underlying smell of mold are as real today as they were four years ago. The images from Gary’s stories of those who were rescued and those who couldn’t be rescued are as real to me as if I’d been there. The flashlights dancing through the burnt out wreckage of the Starbucks on the corner by our office still dance in my head.
The fear of my final month at the Pentagon is so tangible – when planes first began to move again at Reagan National as we crossed 110 to get back to the office from the POAC – turning and seeing a plane that appeared to be heading directly for us. Those things are still with me.

So for the last two years, I haven’t wanted to go to Shanksville, I have felt compelled to go to Shanksville. My sister, Emily, accompanied me this year to Shanksville and I tried to explain to her this compulsion. In the end, I couldn’t. I just said, “Maybe it’s part of my own sickness”. Maybe it is a part of my sickness, maybe it’s something I will never get over – something I will never understand. I think it is however, something I will continue to do.