For most of us, the morning of September 11, 2001, galvanized us. While NYC seemed to be on the brink of extinction (after all, we had no idea if the attack had finished), the rest of the country stared at their televisions, unable to believe, unable to move. Yet, even as we remember the people and events of seven years ago, today we go on. In the shadow of great loss, babies were born and children grew up and married. As it is with all births and deaths, with all of life. As it will be with all of us.

So I am also remembering . . . what is it that we leave behind?

That takes a lot of forms. The first story I ever published was a biographical sketch of my great-great-great-grandfather. Fascinating man, and I loved telling his story. In my small collection of family papers, I have a sheet of brown paper on which my great-grandfather had written a series of home remedies that he’d gotten from a radio show out of Chicago. Obviously a man who cared for others. Little things, passed from family member to family member, reminding us of where we’re from, what we’re about.

I will have no grandchildren; my daughter will probably not survive me. So what will I leave?

With luck, a few good books.