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

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. 

My daughter and I  first visited the memorial in 2012. I remember watching as she walked away from me, a somber and solitary figure cutting a new path deep into that Healing Field of red, white, and blue, undone by the sheer enormity of the memorial and her diminished stature within it. I had to force myself to look away to recollect the way we were that September morning when I dropped her off at pre-school, to remember the color of the sky.

In that blink of an eye, she vanished into the field of flags. Out of sight.  Gazing up at that big desert sky above me, I knew my daughter was not lost. And, I know the very thought is still what scares me most.

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In 2001, 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, little nature-lover Juliana Valentine McCourt, and her mother, an Irish immigrant from Cork, were on their way to Disneyland, to 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 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 her attention. We follow each other on Facebook and Instagram and I refrain from gushing too much in ways that will embarrass her. We binge-watch Netflix originals  – me on Ozark, she on re-runs of Law and Order. We love each other and we know 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 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

Reminders that terrorism is an awful equalizer, colorful tulle butterflies are attached to the flagpoles in the Healing Field and stuffed bears sit on the grass. Reminders that 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 there are shows of patriotism and silent prayers for the dead. That morning, 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,” those sworn 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 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.

So 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 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.

Some of us will look up and remember the sky under which we are all connected. Some of us will say her name.

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

A 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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