I didn’t lose anyone I loved that day — though Tom walked home past a smoldering Pentagon and my brother Phillip glimpsed the first plane flying preternaturally low, saw it moments before it struck the tower.

But I did lose a place that day. We all did. We lost the country that existed up until 8:45 a.m. September 11, 2011. Into its place came another country, less innocent, more anxious, initially united but now fragmented.

To the extent that I can recall any one emotion from that horrible day, that day of clear air and silent skies, it was a sadness and tenderness for my country. It was a feeling I had experienced before only attached to people — a pathos for our achievements, our goodness and even for our mistakes.

On September 12 I went to church. Suzanne, 12 at the time, came with me. The minute we took our seats I was sorry that I had brought her. Everyone was sobbing. None of the lectors could make it through a reading. I vaguely remember hearing the passage about beating swords into ploughshares, but other than that all I recall were the tears.

Suzanne, now 22, said just the other day she was glad she was there. It made her realize the depth of what happened to us. And as I watch the commemorations of this day on television, I see young men and women Suzanne’s age who lost fathers and mothers and brothers. They were children then; they are adults now. They grew up in a different world.