You don't see as many flags flying outside folks' homes now.
I don't know the last time I saw anyone saluting firemen just driving by.
Or a New York Port Authority worker walking by.
Few scurrying back and forth to work in downtown New York even bother to look at the vast open pit that was once the World Trade Center.
Tourists still come but some wonder what to make of that big hole.
From some, I sense a big disappointment.
They look. They wonder. But there's nothing there.
They know well something tragic happened here, something historic.
But it's history.
And with the years that pass, the small comfort knowing it is further back in history.
Something that was then, but is not now.
A tragic snapshot of what was, and because nothing has happened since, could never be again.
So tourists move on to other New York sites.
And hardened New Yorkers to other more pressing concerns.
Jobs. Kids. Schedules.
All rudely interrupted seven years ago this day.
An odd anniversary, really.
For couples, they call this the time they get their "itch."
Some get restless. Some get worse. Most, I hope, get encouraged.
They're still together.
I don't know about our nation. No itch. Few flags. Not a whole lot of reflection.
Perhaps it's good we move on.
What's not good is how we forget.
And compartmentalize and insist it's all in the past.
As if it's not with us now, and warning us now.
That should be our seven-year itch.
What worries me greatly is few are even scratching it.
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