"I have loved you for a thousand years; I'll love you for a thousand more"

In the days following September 11, 2001, I had been invited to a memorial on the town green. A warm and humid evening, the sun began to set casting a magnificent orange glow on the dated downtown. In the gazebo, a microphone stand with portable speakers had been set up. One by one, presenters stood in front of it and spoke to the growing crowd. One woman, with her thick Rio Grande Valley accent asked for audience participation. “Come, share your story.”

Standing in a group with my friends, I debated the idea. This is dumb, I thought to myself. No one cares. No one knows. But …

Several others embraced the opportunity and moseyed to the gazebo. They spoke. The crowd clapped.

Gathering my courage, I followed them. When I reached the main announcer, I asked to speak. She told me the program was ending. I answered with a disappointed, “oh.” She must’ve seen something in my expression as she said they could make an exception and led me to the microphone.

Standing in front of it, I introduced myself and looked out into the sea of casually dressed people wearing shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops or sneakers. I began to speak about my best friend who was missing in the aftermath of the attack. She had been in a World Trade Center tower that day. I rambled for what must’ve been ten minutes, but midway through, I lost my composure. When I left the stage and returned to my friends, I asked how I did.

One gently told me my words were unintelligible. I bawled through the entire speech. All they heard were my uncontrollable sobs. Unbeknownst to my twenty-four-year-old self, that was just the beginning of the grieving, mourning, and processing to find who I'd become.

I had been a newbie features reporter at a medium-sized Texas newspaper seven miles from the Mexico border. Young. Dumb. Naïve. I had been eager to make an impression, develop lifelong friendships, and was often caught up in drama. I was enticed and thriving in the negative attention of lustful connections, petty arguments, and the he-said/she-said bickering between rivalries. It was the real-life version of a 1990s soapy primetime drama on network television. It had been an extension of college, but with new cast of characters.

With at least fifteen-hundred miles between me and everything I knew, it was easy to become detached, but my hometown crew kept me grounded. Particularly my two best friends – they were the two-thirds to my whole. Despite the physical distance, we were as close as when we lived in the same zip code. Sunday morning phone calls, work day phone calls, emails, visits, and plans for upcoming trips kept us close. They were the logic behind my sanity.

Then, came the phone call that changed my existence. One was missing, later determined dead. The other hid herself away. With one phone call, I lost both of them.

I absorbed the emotions – all the feelings: the callousness of other people, the nonchalance of conspiracy theories, the past loves who reached out concerned about my well-being. I took it all personally. I wailed. I talked incessantly. I wrote. I desperately sought answers and rationalizations.

Since then, my grieving and processing has changed. I never know what the new year will hold for me. Some anniversaries, I bawled. Others, I ignored.

When the twentieth anniversary approached, I didn’t know what to expect. So much had changed. Relationships have reconciled and I’ve regained what I once thought to be lost. I figured at the very least, I’d react.

Then the day came and I stared, emotionless, at the flat screen TV. I was captivated and a prisoner. I sat in a massage chair. My back vibrated from the sensations. My feet soaked in a delightfully scalding tub of hot water and bath salts. The screen was directly in front of me.

Quietly, she came to me. She sat on a stool and without hesitation told me she was in high school that day. The principal made an announcement over the intercom and dismissed the students. Her English as a Second Language teacher explained the significance. She sounded both proud and nonchalant. I didn’t know how to respond and instead asked where she went to school. “Springfield,” she answered. I nodded and sat quietly still staring at the screen. Names were read by individuals dressed in their Sunday best. Headshots of the corresponding individuals, their names, and ages appeared on the screen in the lower right corner. It was in the “Fs.” We had a long way to go.

She asked me where I was. Internally I debated how much I should tell her all the while quietly scolding myself for forgetting the day’s date. Did I know I booked this appointment on September eleventh? What did I think would happen on the twentieth anniversary?

I answered and told her how I’m connected to the day. It sounded so foreign, even from my lips. Looking at the screen, I was reminded – and maybe for the first time ever, it clicked – there are literally thousands of other stories like mine. There’s nothing unique about mine, except that it belongs to me.

She nodded as if I’ve just confirmed the toe nail polish color. Unaffected.

I returned to my trance thinking about the years that have passed. I released no tears. I waited through the alphabet for her name as if I owed her that much. I listened to the sentiments of those standing on that podium before a nationwide televised audience. When her name did appear, I snapped a picture for reasons I still don't know. The women in the salon showed excitement like a celebrity walked into the shop. They cheered and asked “is that her?”

I nodded. It was surreal to me too. The emotions came, but none surfaced. It was real. It did happen. It is my story and I desperately wish it wasn’t.