HALLOWED GROUND

The white marble memorial stood quietly amidst the dusty snow covering the hauntingly deserted Flight 93 National Memorial. A stiff wind turned the already low winter temperatures into a bitter obstacle for anyone wishing to explore these hallowed grounds.

Only half a dozen cars sat in the parking lot when I arrived. Several vehicles remained running, pushing warm, foggy exhaust into the crisp air as passengers remained inside to wrap themselves in winter clothes for a short trek to the visitor center. I did the same, pulling on my work gloves from home and wrapping my heavy winter coat atop my hoodie.

I do not mind cold weather inside my house, where I can snuggle under a blanket beside a warm Yankee Candle and a cup of coffee. But when I am outside, I need to be thoroughly swaddled, the way Mom would layer our clothes when my brother and I were young. When I returned from those winter adventures of yesteryear, I would need to peel off the snow-encrusted layers slowly in the basement.

I was not nearly as heavily dressed as I wished I had been—poor planning on my part. So when I exited my vehicle, I imagine a casual observer inside could have mistaken the briskness of my walk for excitement about seeing the exhibit. Point A and Point B were never this far apart in recent memory.

I pushed the handicapped square on the wall to trigger the automated doors. As the heavy metal doors slowly opened, I turned my body sideways to enter more quickly to escape the cold, stomping bits of snow onto the oblong weather mats spread across the doorway. 

Within the quiet darkness of the exhibit hall, only the winter light from the windows faintly illuminated the stone interior. Smaller lights uncomfortably lit the path for visitors down the hallway into the walls of exhibits. A retelling of the events of September 11, 2001, awaited each visitor, more specifically, the tragic fate of United 93 on this very field in Eastern Pennsylvania.

Out of respect, I removed my hat, unwound my scarf, and unsnapped my winter coat. I forced myself to take a deep breath to slow down. I didn't want the energy of my mad dash through the frigid cold to continue inside the solemnity of the display on numerous walls in front of me. My self-guided tour started at the beginning, reliving the historical context and my own memories of the events unfolding on 9/11.

Looking back, we may not find particularly comfortable memories. We encounter ghosts of the good and bad in the world, the depths of the world's anger embracing the heights of its triumphs. We feel the heartbreak, loss, and the world's inability to ascribe meaning to the past while acknowledging we can never change it.

My journey throughout the stone walls of the memorial took me across time, through the very minutes and hours of that day, and how life was somewhat normal until it wasn't, perhaps ever again. I saw the map of the United States, aglow with tiny green lights showing the number of planes in the air when two planes flew violently into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

I traced the red path of United 93 as it left New Jersey and made a pointed turn near Cleveland, Ohio. The hijacked plane flew over the tip of the northern panhandle of West Virginia, only an hour or so from where my own family lived. I revisited the uneasy feeling of the unknown and the helplessness of being so far away in North Carolina when I first heard about its flight path and crash site.

I looked through the glass to see actual remnants of United 93, the plane whose 40 passengers and crew members heroically rushed the cockpit. Circuit boards, phones, jewelry, and tickets were my physical connection to the moment and the passengers. But listening to recordings of voices through an earpiece, the last messages three passengers sent to their loved ones haunted me even more as I stood alone inside this cold memorial.

Moving on was difficult. Seeing pictures of each passenger and crew member was not easy. Having the ability to access older pictures of all of them with loved ones long before 9/11 happened was surreal. The loss of life enveloped me. I wanted to leave, avoiding the feelings this exhibit evoked inside of me. But I felt compelled to continue to pay my respects.

One of the memorial attendants explained the various ways to travel to the Wall of Names. "In this weather, you would be more comfortable driving down. It is just too cold out there." I shook my head. "I will be OK. I am all bundled up." I felt I would be less of a person, disrespectful, or, dare I say, sacrilegious if I did not walk the journey - for them.

I hiked down the nearly two-mile trail to the marble Wall of Names, using my walking stick for support, but that did little to help with the cold of such an isolated walk. Occasionally, I would look for others who had ventured down the hillside. I found no one. The frigid Pennsylvania wind spun around me, icily encouraging me to return to the warmth of my car.

But a presence was there with me, unseen. Forty people, actually, and countless others who suffered from their loss. They stood with me beside the forty individual polished marble slabs lining the area near the crash site. We walked together, reading each solitary inscribed name on its cold marble slab.

A wooden angel rested on the ground near the beginning of the wall,  directly beside Christian Adams, whose name is etched into the first slab. The rest of the slabs were linked to the previous one, representing the unity of their heroic actions on that day over two decades ago.

I asked myself how long I should stay there. In my heart, I need permission to leave. 

A darkening sky encroached upon me as an early December snowfall headed this way, and I knew I had a long walk back to my vehicle. I walked ever so slowly back up the hill. I hoped to preserve the memory of those recognized here on this cold winter day, knowing that the angel would remain with them through the cold night until the sun warmed the ground months from now.