Like most New Yorkers, I am stopped in my tracks every year on 9/11 and remember the sights, sounds, and even smells (burning airline fuel) of that day. That morning becomes a bit more distant as each year passes. For me, personally, it was a day I spent partly on the phone with my grandmother (who died four months later) and partly with my then-boyfriend/now-ex-husband, and my father. All New Yorkers have these idiosyncratic memories of that Tuesday morning, and for those of us who now have children, I wonder which memories we will share as more September 11th anniversaries come and go. My own daughter seemed totally unaware of it today and I doubt they will mention it in her first grade classroom. But as a born-and-bred New Yorker, it sometimes confronts her- she asked recently as we drove by the old WTC construction site, “Mommy, what are they building there?” I told her something had burned down. I was not ready to tell her the rest of the story- how everyone’s lives, how our own lives, have changed since then. Because I’m still figuring it out myself.