The R-J website has uploaded a section dedicated to the remembrance of the terrorist attacks that took place nearly two years ago, with slideshow presentations, articles, and commentary.
One of the articles I found interesting was the report of a local resident who rebounded from the tragedy that claimed the life of her brother, and continues a tradition of charitable giving that the brother had started:
In the two years since terrorists killed her little brother, Jayne Furman has found herself becoming more like him, in ways small and big.“I didn’t always understand my brother, his selflessness,” she said. “I understand that now.”
Steven Furman, who would have celebrated his 41st birthday on Sept. 13, 2001, was the kind of man who kept a separate bank account for charitable contributions.
He was an electricity options trader for Cantor Fitzgerald, which had offices at the top of the World Trade Center. He had a wife and four children, and he had a sister who came to understand him better after his death than she ever thought she would.
“I have often told people, `I hope you never feel my pain,’ ” she said. “I hope you never know what it’s like.”
While others would have us forget 9/11 or besmirch the memories of those who died that fateful day, I for one can’t share their forgetfulness, their conspiracy theories, or their ridicule.
A part of me died that day. Although I was not personally affected by the tragedy, I remember coming home that evening from work, watching the destruction in New York and Washington, and hearing the accounts from survivors of many colors, cultures, creeds, and generations who had lost husbands, wives, children, friends, neighbors, and co-workers in a span of 24 hours. I couldn’t help but shed a tear that evening as members of the family we call humanity became smaller before our eyes.
I will never forget.
And this Thursday, I will pause and remember.
Related: If you haven’t done so already, please support The Voices Project, either with your visitation, or your contribution.
