A macabre Woodstock

That's the feeling I get around the anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks. Being in Manhattan that day was a scary feeling, but the reality is I only knew two people, acquaintances really, who died that day, though I could smell the jet fuel where I lived in the upper Eastside. In a city of 8 million plus that connection was probably above average. But every year, it seems, more and more people seem to say they have a connection, whether they knew someone or had been in the buildings before or had flown those flights at other times. Much like Woodstock, people seem to think they need to have a direct or indirect connection to the attacks. As if that elevates the meaning somehow. I don't know why. It just is.