Over the next months, I spent a lot of time searching for Jeremy. Often I heard his voicein my head, comforting me when my pain was almost unendurable. I visited the crash site.I hungered to know what had happened on Flight 93 and why Jeremy died.

Now I find that my viewpoint has changed. Not that I don't want to know what happened. It's just that I'm sure I will never really make sense of September 11. Did someone declare war on us for a principle? Because they were jealous? To show how tough they were? Did wein this country somehow overstep, push too hard, tread on ancient sensibilities? The world Jeremy and I knew was never more than the rooms we lived in, a few places we walked, a few friends and family we loved. Now it's gone, and no one could ever really make sense of why.

I think Jeremy always suspected he had a higher purpose. I don't believe it was an accident that he was on Flight 93. It wasn't mere luck that an airline passenger with precisely the right physical skills to abort one of the terror missions happened to be on the only plane hijacked that day where there was an opportunity to do that.

Jeremy was 31 when he died, had been married to me for five years and knew his daughter for barely three months. Yet I consider us blessed. He and I left nothing unsaid or undone, and he managed to give Emmy and me everything we need. And sometimes, when I'm watching and listening, I can still feel him near me, leading me forward into the rest of my life.