I'm in a contemplative mood as I watch the various the 9-11 remembrances on television. Seeing the children who lost a parent or a family member gets me the most.
Their grief is so profoundly heartbreaking and yet they have the courage to lay their souls bare on this day of communal mourning.
As I think back to that September day ten years ago, our national tragedy is inextricably tied to a personal one. That was the day my father called to tell me he had prostate cancer. I found myself thinking of all the moments that make a father/daughter relationship special. And they are moments. The grand gestures are nice, but the little things make all the difference. The conversations on the way to school, the seemingly endless patience teaching me to cast for, then hook my first fish, the way he spoke of hard work as something noble and honorable.
My dad was lucky. We were all lucky. His cancer hadn't spread and he had excellent medical care. Now, ten years later I think of those moments and treasure every one of them. And my dad would not be the man or the father he is without the love and support of my mom. I love them both and am so grateful for the family they nurtured, the family we have become.
