Thoughts at the Pentagon Memorial

I sat in front of the grave of the woman who was born in the same year of my father, 1967. Her name was Marsha. She had died on the plane. It makes you wonder, what was her story? Who did she know? Did she have kids? Was she married? Who loved her? Why was she on that particular plane on that particular plane? Did she have a dream? And if so why wasn’t she ever able to reach it? I couldn’t move from the bench, I felt obligated to stay and connect because after all we did have a connection, even if it was only minor. I wish I could’ve met her, I wish I could’ve wrote down her story about her life. Maybe then her passing would’ve been less bitter., for her family and for the random strangers passing by who feel a simply minor connection.

                                                                                                                        -Emily S.