I guess I'll always remember last night: I was lying on my stomach in bed, my 2-year-old Gabriella asleep between my knees, when I read my friend's Facebook post: "Osama bin Laden is dead."
I was in Watchung, NJ on September 11th, 2001, working. My entire staff was huddled around the TV; as many of them furious as were incredulous. One of my best friends was in New York City at the time, and I couldn't reach her by phone.
That afternoon, I got word from the home office that we were to close, and we did so. A few employees decided to go to Washington Rock Park, an old mountain embankment from which General Washington kept watch of British troop movement during the Revolutionary War. I tagged along.
There were hundreds there at the time, heads panned hard left. (I've since learned that, even on it's busiest day, Washington Rock doesn't draw more than 100 visitors.) Most were waiting for their turn to use the coin operated binoculars machine.
A panoramic view opened up from their vantage point. Tops of trees painted the world beneath it midnight green; a child's crayon's scribbled color.
To the immediate left New York City was unmistakeable; not only for its unique sillhouette, but for the two plaintive columns of black smoke, carrying the remains of thousands toward Heaven. I remained strong for my team until that moment: Trying to forego crying made the tears flow harder.
Osama bin Laden's death --whether it was necessary to defeat our enemies or merely symbolic-- excites me: I get to go to bed tonight knowing that our heroes in the Armed Services' sacrifice had some meaning, there will be some measure of justice for the victims of 9-11...
... and I got to tell my daughters that a very bad men went away, and we are all safer for it.