I was driving to work a few days later. It was another perfect day, the sky so blue, the air fresh and warm. The kind of day that normally made my spirits soar into the cloudless sky, that normally made me smile for no other reason than the beauty that surrounded me. But my heart was a heavy weight in my chest that couldn’t be moved. And there was no beauty that could dry my tear-filled eyes.
Sam Cooke was playing on the radio. . . "Don’t know much about his-tor-y," a song that I normally couldn’t resist singing with. But the music couldn’t tempt me to join in.
Days had passed and we were returning to familiar routines. The events of that day were etched so deeply on my soul that I could find little meaning in the habits of a lifetime. What now? How long would it be before we were attacked again? Were we really at war with an invisible enemy, helpless to stop it, at the mercy of hatred?
As I pulled off the highway, I turned and looked at the building where I worked, and I saw the flag. Draped across the highest floors, the stars and stripes resplendent in the morning sun, symbol of all we stand for. And I felt a part of a greater whole, at one with my people, with my country. I was still grieving. I was still in pain. But I was no longer afraid.