Good Morning and welcome to the rain!

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, a 2-year old boy and I were looking into the engine of a car. The vehicle in question was leaking antifreeze and oil. Both needed to be refilled as we tried to squeeze every last mile out of the thing.
So, while pouring in the green liquid, a neighbor poked his head around the corner and said something about Howard Stern talking about something happening in New York.
I blew it off while trying to figure out why a 60-something year old neighbor was listening to Howard Stern.
Slowly, I gathered the boy up and went back inside, where the phone was ringing (these were the days be forever EVERYBODY had cell phones).
Kathleen, with a rather somber voice, asked if I knew what was going on. I mentioned about the neighbor talking about Howard Stern and how I was thinking about going for a walk.
Kathleen then told me to go upstairs and turn on the television.
So, the 2-year old and I walked up to the third floor and turned on the TV.
The images, as everyone knows, were frightening. There were reports of more planes being hijacked. About the possibility of attacks in Los Angeles, Florida, Washington D.C., more in New York. This was, after all, before we were inundated fully with a 24-hour news cycle.
Now, eight years later, the 2-year old is a fifth grader with plenty of questions.
Liam wants to know what the World Trade Center looked like. Kathleen, having gone to school in New York, can paint a picture with her words like I can't.
Liam wants to know where the towers are now. Liam wants to know how many other things happened that day. Liam wants to know if it's safe to fly.
I can answer all those questions. I can show him video of the attacks. I can let him read about what happened that week, month, year.
Inevitably, Liam will ask why it happened. He'll ask why anybody would intentionally try to hurt people (be it here, Iraq, Israel, anywhere terrorists ply their trade).
That question, I (we?) still can't answer.