Flanked by row upon row of flagpoles set five feet apart, if we stretch out our arms, we can 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. 

As my daughter walks away from me, a somber and solitary figure cutting a path deep into a Healing Field of red, white, and blue, I am undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature among those flags. For a minute, I look away to remember how we were that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school. In that blink of an eye, she has vanished into the Field. Instinctively, I know she is not lost, but I am reminded that the very thought of losing her is still what scares me most.

September 11th fell on a Tuesday in 2001. That morning, a little girl only a few months older than mine, boarded United Airlines Flight 175. 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 are rendered illogical and unreasonable, she by raging adolescent hormones, me by the effects of Tamoxifen, we are as two peas in a pod. We have the same hands. We love dark chocolate-covered almonds, ice-cream, the smell of books, and The Daily Show. We know we fill the heart of a husband and father. We know anything can happen, but sometimes we forget.

Juliana died that morning, when her plane 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 they were gone, when terrorists hijacked their plane and crashed it into the Pentagon. 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 and the stuffed bears on the grass prove again that terrorism is a horrible equalizer. Children, parents, grandparents, and those without names or families or homes or good health – in a terrorist attack, they are all legitimate targets.

In the Field, there are shows of patriotism and silent prayers for the dead; a mournful “Taps” pierces the air and then Amazing Grace. Yellow ribbons wrapped around and around those flagpoles encircling the field, they represent the valor of those “first responders,” whose duty is to protect and serve those within.  Ribbons as blue as that September morning sky wound around flagpoles in heart of the Field, for the flight crew members who perished. On the grass, for veterans lost 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 high school now, Disneyland days with her mom perhaps less appealing than thoughts of a driver’s permit or a summer job or college. Such a trajectory is only in my imagination. For Juliana, there was no Disneyland, no first day of school, no soft place to fall.

September 11, 2012 has come and gone. The memorial services are over for another year. Our flags have been hoisted to full-staff once more, and footage of the World Trade Center’s final moments have been filed away for television retrospectives that will air this time next year. Our politicians, having paid their respects, are back on a campaign trail that is not always respectful. 9.11 is history. My daughter tells me none of her teachers remembered it out loud last Tuesday. Ostensibly, it was no different than the day before, probably 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

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