Last week, observing its 18^th anniversary, many of my thoughts revolved around 9-11; the unimaginably orchestrated terrorist attacks on our country, the strange loss of innocence we experienced, the incredible bravery of first responders, and the way people exposed their emotions and vulnerability in its aftermath.

I remember a friend calling me on that beautifully clear early fall morning to bring me into the fold of the informed.

Turn on your TV.

That was all she said.  Then, over and over again, I watched the network news run videos of incredible fireballs in places where they were definitely not supposed to be.

Black smoke and soot came to fill lower Manhattan. People ran through the widest of boulevards.  The images, surreal and chaotic, were accompanied by a soundtrack of professional newscasters who attempted to piece together a series of events as things were still taking place.

No American, no one in the world, I believe, was not touched in some way.

Everyone had a story.  Many of us knew someone that was supposed to be at a meeting at the World Trade Center that got canceled.  Or, we knew people who traveled for work who just happened to be going somewhere else that day. Their planes never left the ground or were called to turn around.  We called them lucky.

I remember going to people’s houses for weeks – to light candles, to meditate on peace, to cry…

Not without some guilt, this most horrific of events led me to feel closer to neighbors and strangers than I remember having felt.

Having experienced this cataclysmic event together, we now shared the knowledge that our individual lives were fragile.  They could end at any time.

We also had to confront the idea of how our lives would be completely different if someone we loved was not on the journey with us.

We might identify with careers, or goals, or different affiliations.  We might drive different kinds of cars and hail from different neighborhoods. We might be pro-this and anti-that.  But we all understand loss.

Loss is one of those things that makes us human.  Grief is experienced by each individual in their own way.  We all have different ways of coping.

But somehow, the understanding that most other people experience loss is — in itself — comforting.

Even though no one else can grieve for you, knowing that others also have fallen into emptiness and despair, reminds you that you are not alone when events introduce this into your life.

So last week, while I was remembering 9-11, I was driving on a road I’ve driven on a thousand times, past a sight I’ve become accustomed to seeing, but this day, I felt compelled to stop and examine the white bicycle propped up against a traffic light near a church and small park.

The bike rests, presumably, near the intersection where a bike rider lost her life.  It’s decorated with miniature American flags and white wicker baskets with colorful plastic flowers.

A sign on the bicycle provides a full name and a nick name along with the dates that bookended her life.  6/12/1989 – 10/21/2009.  Only twenty years.

I contemplated what, at this age, she might have wished for herself; what special burdens her brothers and sisters may have had to take on upon her death; whether she had a sweetheart that had to wait many years before he could feel okay to be open and loving with another.

In trying to be respectful and thoughtful about a life I never knew, I felt drawn into a sense of belonging to humankind.  I also found myself thinking about my friend Lynne, who died of ovarian cancer a few years ago, and others whose laughter and support I still miss.

I stood in solidarity with Lil Bit’s family and friends.

Remembrance is a gift.  It’s not just about giving attention to the unique set of qualities that compose a person’s character after you no longer can directly experience that person.  Remembrance is not just about making sacred space for someone or something that is no longer in your daily life.

Remembering that you are human, in all its joys and sorrows, is special, and I’m grateful for these moments.

Visiting a public monument or silently reflecting over a white bicycle at the side of a road that memorializes a life lost is no small thing.