Second grade.
But I can remember.
I was so scared. My mom was crying. The news showed nothing but image after image, and in my mind it was almost like a game. Surely those weren't, like, people. Surely not. I told a mom at school what had happened and she laughed at me. Laughed, because she couldn't believe it was true.
I'm mentioning it here because it seems quite honestly as if so many others forgot. I know that we have to move on. While we're still in the midst of a war that (supposedly) was started by these attacks, though, I think we should remember.
It's been eight years. Eight years, and that's a long time. But I don't think we should forget. Yeah, it's depressing. It seems like we're dishonoring those that died, though, by just forgetting; by just not mentioning it.
I don't know. It really bothered me all day, though. It was too terrible to brush away, even after eight years . . . We didn't even have a moment of silence at school. (At least not in the Spanish Hallway, where the intercom doesn't work.)
It just seems like those people deserve better.
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