Don’t get me wrong, I hate what happened on Sept. 11, 2001.

As another anniversary passed this week, I’m still furious that innocent Americans and foreigners alike were murdered by a ragtag band of lunatics with little more than box cutters and blind, seething hatred. Families of the victims will be affected for generations. The nation, and the entire world, changed forever that morning.

But there’s something I miss about the aftermath. Not witnessing the untold suffering that went on for weeks and months that followed. Not the news coverage or the steady stream of images from ground zero. Certainly not the heightened security or the way panic set in at the mere sight of a low-flying aircraft.