It was a regular day, right up until it wasn’t.

God knows, I wasn’t paying attention. The day before—a Monday in September, bright and sunny—I was in a judge’s chambers in Hartford with an Assistant Attorney General. The lawyer I was working with was on the west coast, and so I’d shown up, and we were discussing the AAG’s claim that the action I’d created—something about a license for someone working in elevators—should be dismissed—for lack of jurisdiction, I think. The judge, whose name I don’t recall, told the AAG—I think his name was Aaron—that he would have to file a written motion to dismiss by Wednesday. The judge—maybe a woman, but I couldn’t say for certain now—told me that I had to get a handful of documents served by then. Sure, fine. Whatever.

The next morning—another bright, sunny September day—I was getting ready to leave when my local public radio station (Remember public radio? Back before the felon cut all the funding?) said something about an airplane having collided with one of the Twin Towers in lower Manhattan. I remembered the Twin Towers, because in 1987, I’d delivered documents there. Don’t recall what documents, to whom, or why, just that I had to drive down from Stamford and whisk up to a triple-digit floor—101? 102? 106? I don’t remember now, because I was more concerned about getting home to continue unpacking, because in the spring of 1987, I was moving to downtown Stamford and an errand to the Twin Towers was unremarkable at best.

But on that September morning—I don’t remember what I thought when I heard about the plane hitting that first tower, except that at the time, I didn’t think much. I went to the lawyer’s office and made copies of the documents that needed to be served. At one point, his bookkeeper said that the radio announcer had said a plane hit the Pentagon, but the bookkeeper thought that was a hoax—no idea why, but that was his opinion.

The bookkeeper also doubled as the lawyer’s go-fer, and he was going to serve the documents, so I left all the copies with him and headed off to my therapist. I had public radio on in the car. As I pulled into her parking lot, just before ten o’clock, the announcer said that the tower had fallen. I sat in the car for a few minutes, listening to things that made no sense because nobody knew what was happening. Then, I went in for my appointment, and since my therapist had been in sessions all morning, it fell to me to tell her what was going on. Then, we talked about whatever was going on in my life for fifty minutes. When I went back out to my car and turned on the radio, and it turned out that while I was in my appointment, the second tower fell.

I went over to a small supermarket near my therapist. Inside, the place was eerily silent even though there were people in the aisles. I recall being in the bread aisle, and a couple of workers were stocking shelves and talking, but not about what had happened. I didn’t know whether they even knew. I don’t remember what I bought.

Back to the car and public radio. The governor told everyone to go home, I think. I went home and watched television, but only up to a point. Eventually, I had to turn it off. I recall sitting in bed, talking with an old boyfriend—not about anything in particular except what had happened, not what might happen or what anyone could do. Later, I learned that my church held a prayer vigil, but at the time, it didn’t occur to me to go out in search of others to be with.

At some point the next day, the AAG from Monday—Aaron—called me. The lawyer I was working with was stuck on the west coast since no planes were flying. Aaron said that he’d spent most of the prior day tracking down family members in New York City—I think he said they were in Brooklyn. He asked if I’d agree to an extension of time for him to file his motion to dismiss because he didn’t think he’d get it filed that day. I told him to take all the time he wanted, that I didn’t care when he filed it, and I asked if his family was okay. They were, thank God. I remember that conversation because in those moments, we weren’t opposing counsel—we were humans who knew there were things more important than a lawsuit.

My memories of the days that followed are hazy after all these years. One evening, my next-door neighbors and I gathered on my lawn with lit candles because there was a vigil being held. I watched lawmakers gathering on the steps of the Capitol, singing “God Bless America.” A local humor columnist wrote his column, but it wasn’t funny because as he said, it wasn’t time yet.

What I remember most about that time was that we were one. All the crap that divides people now—political affiliation, religion, ideology—we set it all aside. We came together. We were one nation, for maybe the last time.

It didn’t last, of course. All the cracks and crevices opened again. As the years have gone on, the divisions have become more ferocious. Now, we have a pseudo-leader who thrives on dividing people, honoring his pals and vilifying those who disagree with him. If what happened then were to happen again, I can’t imagine the reaction, but I feel sadly certain that the unity we knew all too briefly in 2001 would not be repeated.

Today, people across this nation have commemorated those attacks. The two planes that collided with the towers, causing those statuesque buildings to collapse into rubble. The one that crashed into the Pentagon. And the incredibly brave passengers on Flight 93 who, knowing they would die regardless, took heroic actions to keep the evil ones from taking additional lives.

And the helpers, such as the wonderful people of Gander in Newfoundland, who welcomed planeloads of people diverted from U.S. airports. Fred Rogers always said that in scary times, look for the helpers. Blessings on all those helpers who stepped up in those hard, scary days.

Tonight, as I recall that day, I think of those whose loved ones who had awakened that morning and gotten on those planes or headed off to work in those buildings with nothing more pressing on their minds than where they might have lunch or whether they’d meet a particular deadline. Such trivial concerns, and so precious because in the end, focusing on what’s trivial is such a luxury. In twenty-four years, memories grow foggy, and it’s easy for people to forget what our lives were then, who was lost and who remained.

More than twenty years ago, I went to Ground Zero in lower Manhattan, the former site of the Twin Towers. I can’t say exactly when it was, only that the site was mainly rubble. I didn’t expect to cry—I’m not an easy crier—but I recall standing there, looking down into the pit, with tears welling. I want to say there was a chain link fence, but I can’t be certain. I recall that someone had fashioned two pieces of metal—girders, maybe—into a cross shape.

You think you’ll remember everything, all the details. You think it’ll stay with you forever. But memories fade. Eventually, you remember a handful of moments. A mild, sunny day as you hustled to get out the door on time and heard a weird report on the radio. A bookkeeper telling you the radio newscaster is wrong. Sitting in a parking lot as you hear that an office tower where you once rode the elevator has impossibly collapsed. Walking through the bread aisle in a silent supermarket. Turning off the television because you just can’t, not now. Telling a lawyer to file his motion whenever he wants, because there are things more important than deadlines. Standing on the lawn with neighbors, holding candles and feeling the futility as you wonder if things will ever be okay again.

The world is so different now, and yet still, I wonder if things will ever be okay again. I want to believe they will, but I can’t say for certain.