I remember my father, wearily taking the LIRR out to Long Island every day to attend funeral after funeral. I remember the kids who lost their parents returning to school. I remember the flag that appeared outside our neighbors’ home to honor their dad. I remember the crushing terror I felt when I was mistakenly told that my own dad was inside building #2, and the relief and subsequent pangs of guilt–for lack of a better word–that washed over me when I learned that he was not; the unreachable man was another student’s father. I remember looking at the twin spotlights that rose from the Trade Center site that we could see from our house if we stood on top of the hill. I remember the American flag patches we sewed onto our school uniforms.