I was four years old on September 11, 2001.

It was a weekday with an ocean blue sky holding off the crisp air of fall, trying to keep its grasp on the increasingly elusive summer warmth. But as the day drew on, the cloudless, blue sky filled with a suffocating smoke for miles beyond the Manhattan island, choking an entire country.

I lived in New Jersey, maybe 15 miles outside of Manhattan. New York City was my city—even as a preschooler. It was a place of wonder with its skyscrapers and the horse-drawn carriages of Central Park. It was a safe place—at least to a child with her parents—until it wasn’t.

Those born in 1997, like myself, are probably the youngest to remember this day, the day America looked like a war-zone. To be honest, I don’t remember most of the events that happened in my small preschool world, but what I do remember is a feeling: confusion.

I remember I was supposed to have a play date with my best friend later that afternoon, being really excited about it, and then upset when it was cancelled. “Why?” I asked my mom pleading. She avoided telling me a reason for the sudden cancellation—and for why she had tears in her eyes.

The news channel stayed on our television set the entire day. I wasn’t allowed to watch “Blue’s Clues” or “Dora the Explorer” like I normally would early in the morning. Again, I didn’t understand. My mom never watched TV during the day, but on this day, she couldn’t step away. Every time I crossed the living room’s threshold, she would shoo me out, trying to protect me from what I would see on the screen—but I still saw it. I remember asking, “Mommy, why did two people fly those planes into the building?” I remember my mom looking at me, not wanting to tell me a lie but also not wanting to tell me the truth. Now, I think she avoided telling me because she didn’t know herself. Maybe I wasn't the only one confused that day.

I remember my mom talking on the phone a lot. She didn’t normally do that.

I remember picking my older brother up from school. He was excited because our dad was taking him to a Yankee game later that night. No one had told him what had happened. How do you tell a 7 year old? My mom explained why he couldn’t go. Just as I didn’t understand why I couldn’t have a play date, he didn’t understand why the game was canceled. He was angry. That same night, my dad framed the Yankee tickets for that game on our basement wall, serving as a constant reminder of what that day should have been. A day filled with laughter. A day filled with happiness. A day filled with fathers and sons reunited after a workday.

When my dad came home from work, he hugged us all extra tight. My brother was angry at him, still not understanding why they couldn’t go to the game. Neither of us understood how lucky we were that our family was together at the end of this day. For us, nothing had changed, but so many houses up and down our block had empty beds.

Fifteen years later and I am outside of the New York metropolitan area, away at school in North Carolina. Most people here don’t have a connection with this infamous day. They were too young to remember and too far away to be affected. This year, 9/11 falls on a Sunday. On this day, I can expect floods of my fellow students working away in the library after their nights out. I know I will find in my inbox a short email from my university acknowledging that they “recognize this may be a difficult time for faculty and students." I know no one will talk about it here. Maybe it’s because they don’t care, but more likely it’s because they won’t realize today is that day. It’s all so different from my hometown. Every year in school, from kindergarten through 12^th grade, a significant portion of the day was dedicated to discussion and remembrance.

I am thankful that my experience is what it is. For so many others, it was a day their parents, siblings, and children didn’t come home. But even with an experience as protected as mine, I still can’t forget it. And I never will.