Breaking news: videos invade the television screen. Obscured by engulfing black smoke, abandoned victims reach their hands out to the camera for safety. The video shakes violently as the cameraman sprints away from the implausible background. The prodigious tower in the backdrop transforms into an enemy. Windows shatter as the tower implodes and falls from heaven. Without warning, its sister plummets to the same fate.

The television mesmerizes all eyes like a moth attracted to a luminous bug zapper. Images on the screen blur as a film of water conceals the wide bug-eyes of each individual. The mask of water eventually trickles down each cheek to the solemn pale lips glued together by shock. A photograph: the patriotic image of three firefighters honorably raising the American flag on top of the shredded remains of the Twin Towers, encapsulates every emotion—fear, chaos, sorrow, anger—associated with the tragedy. “Never forget” becomes the mantra signifying the 9/11 grief.

12 years, 4,380 days, 105,120 hours have disappeared since the day of devastation. It’s September of 2013, and I stand at the Tempe Beach Park in Arizona staring beyond the infinite rows of American flags. At night, the park’s golden lights eerily illuminate the flags. I stroll through the rows losing myself in a maze of red, white, and blue. Gliding forward, I stretch my hand out to feel the coarse material of each flag. A warm wind brushes across my face and ripples the flags. Each ripple bends into a small wave that beckons—implores—me to unveil a secret. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a small white card glinting with each gentle wave of the flag. As if by a domino effect, several other white cards shimmer around me like the iridescent scales of a fish in murky water. Captivated, I reach out to a card and on it reads “Shannon Lewis Adams, 25, World Trade Center.” My hand drops from the card as I realize each flag represents a life lost to 9/11. What first felt like a small patch of flags becomes an endless graveyard. I turn in circles realizing I cannot see the outer edge of the memorial. An indescribable emptiness strikes me—an emptiness I imagine as genuine reverence. I begin the search for the end of the maze. As I coil around the flagpoles, I imagine each of the ghost figures belonging to the name cards. They laugh, smile, and dance, for the flags give them life. On the outskirts of the memorial, I stumble across a table with an open book.

Only a couple of pages are filled with entries. Each one commemorates the memorial and notes the waning significance of 9/11. Where are the children? The younger generations not only need to know but hold a right to know. What does it matter though? 9/11 is in history textbooks now, and that alone is enough to say that kids will “remember.” So why not flip another page of history and move on? Because a few sentences in Times New Roman font will not resonate. It will simply become a fact to memorize for the next exam. Within the time frame of 12 years, 4,380 days, and 105,120 hours, the majority American opinion has drastically evolved into one of pessimism. As each second ticks by, we choose to forget.

We remember the greatest and the worst moments of America; they molded us into a nation of pride and dignity. Living in the past is useless, but this does not mean we should forget where we come from. We don’t have to be a film stuck on repeat spewing the same phrases and images over and over again. Rather, we should move forward learning from our mistakes and our successes so that we can become an Emmy-award-winning paradigm for other nations. When united, we shape into an unstoppable movement capable of conquering the impossible. All across the nation, each hand (varying in age, size, and color) came together to work and rebuild the destruction.

Immediately after the attack, the name of each lost individual was associated with a face. Pictures were hung everywhere along with burning candles, stuffed teddy bears, sketches by three-year-olds, and notes from children who forever said their last “I love you” to their daddies and mommies. 9/11 commemorated each individual, but now all the Sarahs, Kevins, and Rays have been bunched into a massive group—making us lose sight and clarity of each person, as well as the importance of 9/11.

9/11 is similar to a wedding anniversary, and Americans are bad spouses. On the surface this analogy may seem absurd. How is it possible for a joyous occasion to parallel a gruesome tragedy? Just like inattentive spouses, we now only commemorate the monumental years. The flag, like a wedding ring, is always there in the background hinting to us that we should never forget. Obvious symbols—a flashy diamond ring, a gold band, a photograph, a 20’ by 30’ flag, a waterfall memorial, the lowered skyline—go by without a second glance, we forget the dates and then the events themselves. Just as with a wedding anniversary, years and years of forgetting demonstrate lack of care and concern. What rationale puts us in a position to say the tenth year holds more significance than the ninth?

My dad is a fire marshal for the city of Gilbert, Arizona, and two years ago, his Captain drove cross-country to retrieve a piece of metal from the Twin Towers. Gilbert fire and police set up a breathtaking memorial outside their administration, open to the public. Marble slates are etched with the names of all the firefighters and police officers lost. Not many people are aware that more than ten years after the destruction, people are still dying. Numerous firefighters and police officers are yet being diagnosed with cancer due to the smoke and other carcinogens inhaled after the attacks. An overwhelming amount of people attended the memorial after its creation, but this year, hardly anyone showed. I guess our nation does not uphold our own ideal of never forgetting.