Six years

It's kind of trite. I wasn't in New York. Heck, I didn't know anyone in the towers and everyone I knew in the Pentagon was safe. But it still hits me like a ton of bricks every time I think about it.

I was on active duty, stationed at Fort Polk. Like most the time, I was outside having a smoke. I heard the thump of rushed feet on the stairs inside and the door behind me opened. "A plane just hit the World Trade Center!" my NCOIC, eyes wide, told me.

It took a moment to parse. "What?" I asked.

"A plane just hit the World Trade Center," he said again, measuring his words for impact.

I threw out my smoke and we both ran back upstairs to watch events unfold on CNN. We watched the smoke pour out of the building and wondered aloud as to the reasons why something like this happened. We speculated about it being an accident. We watched, horrified, mesmerized, until the second plane hit. Then it sank in. We were attacked. We are at war.

That carries a certain weight when you're an active-duty soldier. War is a soldier's business. And it's a shame that our country has grown so weary over such important work.

I think of the thousands of people who lost their lives that day and I think of the duty I swore to so long ago. Even as a civilian I feel that same sense of duty to my country burning deep inside me. This wound that was thrust into us heals unequally, individually. Mine is no longer open, but is a jagged scar. One that demands I never forget.