As each name was read, he spoke them all too. He didn't have a list, except in his head. Every year for ten years he had returned here to remember, because he couldn't forget. Nobody could forget. His lips moved in what anyone watching him might take to be a prayer. Maybe it was a prayer. He didn't know anymore. The bell rang and silence fell and only then did he stop reciting names. Without his willing it, his hand rose to his chest, to the scars that the event had left etched onto his skin. Next to his heart. Yes, that was where his people were, next to his heart. And his people were all around him, in all their grief and strength, a press of crowd and a further-flung press of minds remembering, of people all over the nation pausing their lives to remember.
There was a crowd outside the ceremony, people who needed to feel near the event and tell stories. He could understand that. Wasn't that what drove him, too? Wasn't that why he was here, why he came back every year? Wasn't it the need to be close to something big, and close to others who understood? Wasn't that why the heroes in the fire-rescue profession wanted to gather together on this day? Wasn't that the point?
...
AN: This is a drabble, or story if you like, that was born out of my own reflections about that day ten years ago. I was listening to NPR coverage of the ceremony, punctuated by interviews and reflections from other people (in the crowd, survivors), and it made me want to write about it, write something. The newscasters brought up the idea of people wanting, needing to tell about that day, why it's a part of them, where they were, anything. This was an idea that I had already observed among my friends and it resonated with me. So it's a story about that. A story about remembering and a story about telling.
Although the speaker here is intended to be read as America, as my friend and first reader goldenegg pointed out it is vague enough and universal enough to be interpreted as any nation.
Credit goes to NPR for their part in inspiring and informing this work. The quote used in the description comes directly from NPR.
Credit goes to Hetalia for being a vehicle for my thoughts.
Needless to say I own no more than the writing itself.