There’s an empty chair at the table

that’s been empty twenty-five years.

A child grew up without a father.

A mother learned to sleep alone.

A husband still remembers the last goodbye,

and a voicemail someone still can’t bring themselves to erase.

They left for work that morning.

That’s all.

They grabbed their coffee,

kissed someone they loved,

complained about traffic,

and walked out the door

believing they’d walk back through it that night.

Some never did.

And while America watched smoke rise into a blue September sky,

firefighters climbed stairs

everyone else was trying to get down.

Police officers ran toward strangers.

Ordinary people held hands,

made phone calls,

said I love you one last time,

and showed us what courage looks like

when there is nowhere left to run.

Twenty-five years have passed.

Children became adults.

Parents grew old.

Names were carved into stone.

But somewhere tonight,

there will still be an empty chair.

So today, don’t just remember the buildings.

Remember the coffee left unfinished.

The cars that stayed in parking lots.

The birthdays that came without them.

The grandchildren they never got to hold.

Remember the people.

And before you walk out the door today,

hold the ones you love a second longer.

Because on one beautiful September morning,

thousands of Americans said goodbye

without knowing

they were saying it

for the last time.

September 11, 2001

We remember.