The second anniversary of the September 11 attacks is coming on Thursday. I cannot believe it's been two years. It simultaneously feels like it has been two minutes and two centuries since that day. I have noticed an "uptick" in media coverage of 9/11-related topics. I have kind of enjoyed it, actually, in some ways it gives voice to the things I think about daily. I mean, 9/11 may have happened two years ago but it is in my consciousness every single day, and I suspect it will be for a long time to come. So to see it covered in the newspaper or on television, well, seems right to me.

As I read the articles in the New York Times or see the footage on the Today show, I wonder what it must be like for the people closest to the events of that horrific day (how many adjectives are there to describe the day?). I wonder about this a lot, actually. I know what it is to mourn the death of a dear, close relative. When my grandmother died, it rocked my world (and still does nearly nine years later). But I cannot imagine the horror of losing someone in those terrorist attacks. It seems worse, somehow. Maybe because everyone in the world saw it happen...maybe not live, but eventually, they saw the images of the plans flying into the buildings, the falling Towers, the crashed plane on the ground in Pennsylvania. Maybe it is because the whole world is grieving with you...sort of...but unless they have walked in your shoes on this one, there is no way they can understand. Maybe it seems worse because you do not get a lot of privacy around your grief. I know that every year on the anniversary of her parents' deaths, my mother lights a Yorzheit candle to mark their passing. In her house, in private, she lights the candle. There are no newspaper articles about it. No analysis in the weeks leading up to it. Nobody wondering what she is up to now that __ years have passed since they died. No public memorial.

But the relatives and friends of the 9/11 victims have no such privacy with their mourning. The day is one that is observed by people around the world - a fact that I am certain brings both comfort and rage to victims' families.

Anyway, as I have been absorbing the media focus on the second anniversary of the attacks, I have been thinking of the impact on my own family. And my mind turned, as it often does, to Stephen, who, like many CantorFitzgerald employees, was killed on that day. And to Gregory, Stephen's twin brother, and Aileen, Greg's wife (and my cousin). Gabrielle, Stephen's widow, and their daughter, Madeline. Stephen's twelve brothers and sisters, his parents, the kids he used to coach in football, all the hundreds of people who knew and loved him. And my heart goes out to them.

Today I sent Greg a note. I wanted to let him know I was thinking of him. Somehow it seemed better to send it today, rather than on Thursday. Because I know he mourns daily, not just on the anniversary. And to send it on the anniversary seemed, I don't know, cheap. In truth, I want to reach out to him every day...but as usual, life gets in the way. But as the anniversary approaches, I wanted to send him my love, let him know Stephen lives on in me and that on September 11 I will take a special moment of reflection in Stephen's honor.

Greg wrote me back. Said 2003 was an especially hard year. I cried. I can only imagine. The first year the shock keeps you insulated for a while. The newness of the absence keeps things from seeming, I don't know, real. Everyone rushes to your side, helps you through those first treacherous months. You try to get through day-by-day, without too much thought to a future beyond the next ten minutes. In many religions, the end of a year mark signifies the "official" end of mourning. Somewhere it was decided that one year is enough time to get over it - or at least enough time to get on with it. But after this time passes and you are doing your best to "get on with it," I would imagine the reality of the loss starts to set in. He isn't coming back. This is forever. And I think that must be the hardest part. The long-term view of a life without your twin brother, your best friend. The thought itself sends my mind reeling.

Come Thursday, I will do what I can to commemorate the day. It will surely not seem like enough. But it will have to do. And I will take a moment to honor Stephen and his family. And I will try to honor the memories of the thousands of men and women whose lives were taken that day. And next year, I will do it again.