The anniversary has a particular, unusual meaning for me. I was in France, where my marriage was falling apart, despite what I wanted and what I thought was best for all involved, all of whom were having a hard time. My stepson called me over to the TV — it was afternoon there — and I watched the Towers in French, through a debilitating fog of personal grief that isolated me.

When I got back to the U.S., I had to make a conscious effort to make allowances for the feelings other Americans had, which I just could not share. I kept quiet; hell, I was depressed. My detachment made it simple for me to oppose the Afghanistan attack while also realizing there was no way we (my anti-war friends and I) were going to stop it. It seemed important, however, to demonstrate, and I am glad I did.

After 16 years, I am healed (and have been in a relationship for 10 years). The country? I wonder.