"Dear Allen," my dad writes in 2008.

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write this.

I guess I just didn't know what to say.

Seven years since that day, I still remember seeing your face.

I guess God was looking out for me that day but why didn't he see you?

I walked past you; you were heading out to smoke.

I wanted to stop and talk to you, but I had somewhere I needed to be, I really had to pee.

So, I just waved.

I continued on my way and did what I had to do.

It had only been 2 minutes since I saw you.

Only 2 minutes since I saw your chest rise and fall as you breathed in air and your lungs held the oxygen that was keeping you alive.

And your heart was beating like a well-rehearsed song, the same song that had been playing in your chest for 30 years.

So much can change in such a short time. 2 minutes. Just 120 seconds. 121, 122, then BOOM!

Through the clouds of smoke, I find my way out. Survivors gather.

I watch as people let out sighs of relief as they see familiar faces with bodies and lungs that still hold air and have hearts that still beat their song.

You never showed.

Declared missing and I knew. Knew I'd never see you again.

You would have been outside still or maybe in the stairwell.

Did you see it?

The plane?

Coming straight at you.

I'm sorry your boys had to grow up without a father.

I'm sorry you never got to meet your last child.

125 people died there, and you were one of them.

2977 victims died that day, and you were one of them.

An entry by my father, on the obituary page of Allen P. Boyle.

Husband, father of 3, victim of the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001, at the Pentagon.

There's a boy around my age, a few years older, living in Arizona.

He's got two brothers and a mom who loves him. Just like I do.

He's got a roof over his head and a floor beneath his feet. Just like I do.

His dad was in the Pentagon when the plane hit. Just like mine was.

His dad never came home that day, but mine did.

My dad coached every softball game, never missed a school show.

I've made many memories in my life, and my dad has gotten to be a part of them.

But the boy?

He lost the possibility of memories with his father when a few men, with black holes where their hearts should be and evil and selfishness pumping through their veins, woke up one morning and hijacked a plane.

There will be an empty seat at the boy's graduation. At his wedding too.

When the boy succeeds, he will not have his father there to pat him on the back and say, "good job son."

Dear Dylan,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write this.

I guess I just didn't know what to say.

14 years since that day. Your mom moved you all away.

I'm sorry you had to grow up without a father.

I'm sorry for what those men took from you.

Years of potential memories, laughter, smiles, gone.

I wish my words could heal your wounds but how could the words of a girl whose father was spared mend the broken seams of a boy whose father was not?

Somewhere there's this rule that says there can be no happiness without suffering and pain.

You were victimized by the latter, and for that, I am forever sorry.

But I hope and pray that you found happiness and that your sadness has subsided.

I hope you find a bit of joy in every day and don't forget to smile.

I hope when you look at the reflection in the mirror and the eyes of your younger brothers,

you see little pieces of your father that he's left behind to you, that will stay with you forever.

Every September when the candles are out.

Every time I see the ink permanently etched on my father's arm.

I remember that day, and I think of you.

A boy so much like me yet so different in so many ways.