9/11 doesn’t feel like 20 years ago. Somehow the memory feels less distant, as if it was closer to 10 years ago. Long enough that so much has changed, but not long enough for the pain to belong to another era. I think that’s a good thing, because it hasn’t faded too quickly. I believe it’s important to keep it in our hearts, to honor those who were indelibly affected.

20 years ago, I was a 15-year-old sophomore in high school, about an hour north of NYC. It was either the 2nd or 3rd period of class at Brewster High and I had a math class with a young teacher with strawberry blonde hair. One of the school leadership came into class and quietly said some things to her; I can’t remember if it was the principal but I think it was. The shock on her face didn’t make sense to us.

At some point, we got moved to another classroom, which I don’t recall being one I normally went to. If my math class was on the eastern side of the school, then this one was in the northwest. I remember one of my classmates, Craig, seemed to get news that his aunt might have died. I don’t remember what exactly we had been told at that point, but not long after, we were sent home.

Back at home, the news channels had nothing but horror to share with us. Did I get home before the second plane hit? Or did I watch that unfold in front of us? My mom was home and my dad was on a business trip near the Pentagon (which I didn’t know at the time). I later learned that my mom had nearly taken a job either in one of the towers or right across the street. She could have been right there. My dad was at a hotel and heard the plane fly overhead before it struck the Pentagon. Thankfully, that’s as close as we got to being affected by 9/11.

A year later, we had moved to California after nearly relocating to Texas. I felt so alone on this side of the country, with brand new friends in a state that I (at that point) hated and nobody who understood what it was like to be a New Yorker on 9/11. For years, I would quietly remember the day and mourn.

Since then, I went to college, studied abroad, worked abroad, fell in love, got married, moved to Virginia, returned to California for business school, got divorced, bought a house and have now settled in southern OC. I think I’ve only been back once since leaving, back in 2013. I got a chance to visit the memorial to pay my respects and it gave me a solemn, haunting feeling very much like Holocaust memorial I visited in Berlin.

This year, I almost didn’t realize what date it was until yesterday; I still can’t believe it’s September. Today I woke up and began to read articles. There were many beautifully-written, poignant stories about the bravery and tragedy witnessed on that day. For over three hours, I let myself be consumed by articles. It’s a strangely quiet and peaceful day, with a gorgeous view of the coast. I feel like I should do something special to commemorate the day, but I’m also perfectly content to stay at home with the cats and chow down on the samosas I just made.