When the two airplanes crashed the World Trade Center, I was five years old: far too young to remember intimately, far too young to know the impact that this day had on many people. But I’m older. I have grown and matured. I realize how fortunate I am to not have lost someone, or to not have lost my own life.

Today is September 11, 2010.

Today, someone has drove the car to their loved one’s grave. He is still and silent, looking down on the tombstone. He may have bent down and delicately wiped off the dirt of the plaque, nails digging away the crumbly soil that was caught in the indentation of their name. It could be their parent, their friend, their cousin, their child. And he’s staring at the name. A name that no longer belonged on Earth, but somewhere where lifetimes of travel could not take them.

Today, he reflected one the moments he shared with this person: smiles, laughs, tears, regrets. He might remember the sound of their laugh, the color of their eyes, their favorite song to vivid detail. He might have remembered planning to visit his loved one that day. But instead, everything just…

…disappeared.

Today, all that’s left is an empty hole, big or small, wide or thin, that could never be refilled completely. All that he has left of this person is memories that he could never share the same way.

This is for the souls that were lost; this is for the chances that were never taken; this is for the lives that have changed; this is for the dreams that have been ruined; this is for the goodbyes that were said too late; this is for the futures that never were.

Nine years ago.

Remember.