My contribution to an NRO symposium:
What I remember most about September 11 happened on September 12.
I was walking from my townhouse in Virginia to the Franconia-Springfield Metro station, for my first day of work in a Washington, D.C., that would be forever different. In the grass beside Beulah Street lay a small American flag, a little bigger than an index card. My guess is that somebody had attached it to the antenna of a car — a tiny patriotic gesture amid a huge national outpouring.
But it had blown off. There it rested, at my feet.
So I picked up the flag. Later on, I pierced it with safety pins and attached it to the black bag that I used to carry everywhere.
The flag remains on the bag today, badly torn after a decade of rough handling but still showing the red, white, and blue.