I remember many things from when I was five years old — losing teeth, watching “Leave It To Beaver” with my babysitter, giggling as one of my classmates went to the principal’s office for dumping a little carton of chocolate milk on his head. September 11, 2001, is one of the things I can’t. Despite its shock and significance, it’s a memory I just can’t pull.
Vivid, however, is my memory of the first time I hauled my mom’s 9/11 coffee table book out of its dusty nook and saw the picture of the falling man. That’s an image you can’t unsee, and as a youngster whose only concept of the terror attack was that some plane hit some building, that photograph immediately instilled the gravity of what those events meant for the 3,000 people on whose tombstones is engraved September 11, 2001, and the millions more whose lives will never be the same.
I also remember in great