(deep sigh) Whenever I blog hop, I wind up at some 9/11 site. I spend hours reading other peoples' memories, and I cry. I wonder about that.
The day it happened, I did not cry. I talked to all my friends through their sobs, and did not cry. Twice a day I drove past the firehouse with it's flag at half mast, and did not cry. Not really. Everything I saw caused a momentary restriction in my throat, a burst of sob-noise and a few tears. But I didn't cry.

Months later, my mother-in-law sent us a Time-Life book about September 11th. I glanced through it, it was very moving. A smattering of tears ran down my face, and I put it away. It sat on the shelf, waiting for me to be ready. I finally was ready one day.
I took the book off it's shelf and opened it. The inside cover is filled with the pictures people had posted all over New York... and then I could cry.
I pressed the book to my chest and rocked back and forth, and cried, and cried, and cried.
I couldn't call anyone, I couldn't tell anyone. They had already had their grief and moved on. I was too late to grieve with the nation. I grieved alone.

I wonder if that's why the Universe keeps pointing me toward 9/11 sites. I am not alone. I was not alone that day. I hope some day I'll find a blog where someone else couldn't cry. I think that would be cathartic.