Rain.  Ash.  Smoke.  A loud, pounding roar.  Fear.  Helplessness.  Anger.  Bitterness. 

These are some of the things, feelings I still experience even now, nearly eight years later; next month will mark the eight-year anniversary of the terrorist attacks that hit New York City and Washington DC, as well as that field in Pennsylvania, where nearly 3,000 women, men, and children perished at the hands of foreign Islamic terrorists who had absolutely no regard for human life.

I am a September 11, 2001 widow.

  My husband, Braxton, a firefighter for the city of New York City, perished when the towers fell; he was caught in the building when it fell, burying him in the rubble.  By the time rescuers found him several days later, it was too late.  He was dead; there was no way he could have ever been brought back to life.

He was only 23 years old when he died, barely a baby himself. 

He left behind a grieving wife (me) and a bouncing baby boy who was his spitting image.  Almost eight years later, and I still have flashbacks, especially when I see reminders being splashed on our television screens or hear people talking about it.  I cannot watch anything related to September 11, 2001 without getting violently sick to my stomach; it is still too much for me to bear even now.

What makes me crazy  about the whole thing is we're still at war, and we're really not making any progress in finding the bastard who was the mastermind behind all of this (Osama bin Laden) or his Al-Quaeda operatives, and our soldiers are being blamed for crimes when the enemy is using their own people (their elderly, their handicapped, even innocent children) to kill others at will; they don't care how many they take with them, only as long as it is for their "glory".

The enemy is getting away with murder (literally) while our military men and women are dying left and right, being severely injured, and being charged for war crimes.

Something just doesn't add up here.  And it makes me furious!

I look at my son; I see Braxton in Josiah's smile, eyes, hair.  He looks exactly like his daddy did when he was his age. Josiah was only a few months old when September 11, 2001, happened; so he never really knew his daddy except from what I've told him about him or what he's seen in pictures.  I tell him how much Brax loved him, and how he wished he could have done more for him while he was still alive.  I don't want him to forget about his daddy, so every year, I go to the memorial service for the September 11, 2001 victims, so he can learn just how brave he really was.

Josiah goes with me.  I make sure of that.

Josiah is at the age now where he is figuring things out.  He's learned about September 11, 2001, and why I cry whenever people talk about it.  I want him to remember the sacrifices made by America's Finest as they struggled to save the living and find those buried underneath mountains of rubble.  I want him to remember why we remember such a life-changing event. 

I want him to understand that even though there are many bad people in this world, there are many more good people who only want to make the world a much better place for one and all.

I want Josiah to know about the enemy and why we are fighting this war on terror.  While I don't want him to hate the enemy, I do want him to pray for them, that God changes their hearts and minds, before they take any more innocent lives.  I want him to appreciate the sacrifices made by brave men and women who answer the call to defend our nation from enemies, both foreign and domestic.

Sometimes he cries, especially if he sees me crying.  I tell him that it's okay to cry; it is a sad day to think about, and because of it, our country as we once knew it has been changed forever.  We no longer trust others, and we are having to do everything we can under our own power to defend our nation.

It's nearly the middle of August now; in just a few short weeks we will be reminded in the weeks ahead of that fateful day where our country was attacked.  It is always a horrible, traumatic time for me.  This is when the worst of the panic attacks set in, and then I have to have my mom watch Josiah because I am afraid of what might happen to him if I should happen to suffer a nervous breakdown.

Josiah is trying to grasp the enormity of the situation in his young eight-year-old mind; but I don't think he really understands the full scale drama of the event.  He just sees it as a bad time that happened when he was a baby, and he is often faced with many as yet unanswered questions, both about September 11, 2001 as well as his firefighter-daddy who had been snatched away from him far too soon.

Well, I have only managed to make myself cry again, so I will go; I am crying too hard to be able to see to write.  I will write in here again soon, with more reflections on September 11, 2001 and why I miss my husband even now.  I have been told to move on from this; the trouble is, I can't.  I lost my husband in the attacks.  Because of hate, my world has been shattered; I am still trying to pick up the pieces and have suffered great mental anguish as a result.

*NEVER FORGET!!*

~To be continued.~