As the car pulled away, I looked out the passenger side window.
There they were, my grandmother and grandfather waving from inside the screen door of their house in Queens, New York.
The memory feels like yesterday, but it was so much longer ago than that.
It has to be.
I’ve been in Texas for nearly a decade, and my grandfather was crippled by a stroke less than two years after I moved west. He spent most of his time sitting on the sofa when I went to visit him in the years following the stroke.
After he passed, my grandmother sold the house and moved into an apartment in Manhattan with my parents. Less than two years later, she too was gone.
Memories are all that remain. But the details are ever more in doubt.
As I get older, I have no way of knowing for sure if my memories are accurate.
Did everything really happen the way I remember it? Was what I recall seeing, hearing and sensing real, or was it just a mirage?
When I think of that image of my grandparents waving goodbye from their front foyer, I’m not sure if I’m digging up a memory from 10 years ago or if my mind is playing tricks on me.
After all, my grandmother waved goodbye at us from that same spot each time we left the home, up until she sold it. My memories could be conflated.
There’s no way for me to know for sure.
Never Forget.
Those two words are imprinted in my mind forever.
I’m sharing this article 18 years after the darkest day of my life: September 11, 2001.
I’ve shared my memories of that day and its aftermath on Words of the West before. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.
Sharing my memories of that day has helped me heal. It’s brought me a sense of peace I had thought I’d never find again.
Yet, even as I move forward, the memories of that day continue to haunt me. As is the case with any traumatic stress event, I’m sure I will remain affected for the rest of my life.
Those haunting memories spike on September 11th each year. Not only do I know what the calendar reads, but all the old images and video clips resurface across the Internet, social media and mainstream media.
It’s like a refresher course, recalibrating my memories of the worst day of my life.
You could say I was one of the lucky ones. I was six miles uptown from the carnage at the World Trade Center. There are no Associated Press photos of me walking across the Brooklyn Bridge with the sky behind me looking like a war zone. There are no videos of me watching in horror as the twin towers crumbled.
Yet, I have my own memories to deal with. Of eerily quiet Manhattan streets. Of heavily armed National Guardsmen at a toll bridge, telling us Go, go, get out of here! Of thinking that at any moment, my life might be taken from me.
Those all come bubbling up, each time the calendar turns to September 11th.
I don’t want to forget.
Good or bad — it doesn’t matter. I want to remember.
I pride myself on what I can recall. On how I use that past experience to make prudent decisions.
Memory is important to me because it impacts all three of the foundational pillars of my life.
Be Present. Be Informed. Be Better.
So, I fight doggedly against the fog of amnesia. I don’t drink alcohol. I get a good night’s sleep. I keep my brain active as often as I can.
And I hang on to my memories. Even the memory that has left me forever broken.
It’s difficult. Gut-wrenchingly difficult. But I fight through the pain.
I pay attention to the remembrances on September 11th. And each year, when I visit New York, I go to the 9/11 Memorial and pray for the victims.
Yet, the more time passes, and the more I subject myself to this kind of masochism, the more doubt creeps into my mind.
The year 2001 was more than half my life ago. I was a young teenager — a kid — on the day my life changed forever. And now, there are now legal adults who have only known a post 9/11 world.
These facts serve as a stark reminder that 18 years is a long time, and even the most traumatic memories can get distorted over that period.
I don’t know if my memories of that day are still accurate, or if they’ve faded a bit.
I want them to be accurate. I don’t want to be accused of embellishing anything from a day we are told — rightfully — to Never Forget.
But there’s no way I can know for sure how much of what I remember is accurate.
When the towers fell, I was in school — a school I left 8 months later. When I got home, my family watched Aaron Brown’s reports on the tragedy on CNN. But my parents and sister were too shell-shocked to keep watching the marathon coverage. So, I spent much of the event in front of the TV alone.
The only part of the day that was easily verifiable was the treacherous trip home. My father was with me that whole time. He recalls what I do.
The rest of the day — what I said, what I did, what I thought — I experienced alone. Those words, actions and emotions have been an important part of my life for nearly two decades. But now, more and more, I can’t tell which of them are real.
Perhaps it’s meant to be this way.
Perhaps our memories are meant to degrade when exposed to the cruel hands of time.
After all, our bodies betray us as we age. It’s only logical that our minds would follow the same path to irrelevance.
Even so, a fuzzy memory is not a welcome sight in our society.
In a world where cameras are always rolling, there is no room for error. The proof is there, in pictures and video. And we’re getting fact-checked all the time.
We don’t forget the events of 9/11 because we can’t forget. There are dozens of documentaries showing footage of the planes flying into the Twin Towers. Of the cloud of debris cascading down the cavernous streets of Lower Manhattan.
The evidence is overwhelming. But is that what really matters?
When I come across these iconic images, I’m almost numb to them. Sure, my pulse quickens and my face turns flushed, but that’s to be expected.
It’s my recollections of that fateful day that get me emotional.
The paralyzing sensation of fear. The realization that I might not survive. And the understanding that if I did, my life would be forever changed.
That is what brings tears to my eyes. That is what brings me to my knees.
And regardless how much my recollections of the details might fade, that is what I will never, ever forget.
Therein lies the truth of the matter.
Memories are not about logic. They’re not about timestamping the images in our mind and cross-checking them for rogue filters.
No, memories are about emotion instead.
That image of my grandparents waving goodbye is poignant because they are now gone. Regardless of the details, that memory is a bridge connecting me with two of the most beloved figures in my life.
And those recollections I have of the darkest day of my life are poignant as well. They might induce nightmares, but they also remind me not to take life for granted.
We all have memories that are intertwined with our emotions. Even if we didn’t live through the horrors of New York City on September 11, 2001.
Let us cherish these memories, rather than interrogate them.
For that connection to our heart and our soul — that is something we can’t afford to lose.
May we never forget.