Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

My older son, Kevin, was born on September 11 long before it became synonymous with terrorists and the destruction of the World Trade Center, long before the world knew of American military power and the Patriot Act.

So what does one do when a national disaster becomes forever linked to one’s birthday? I’m not sure Kevin would agree, but here is what I would do.

I’d celebrate any way I wanted. I might acknowledge the national tragedy that shares my birthday by sending money to some philanthropy. I might visit Ground Zero if I were in the neighborhood. I might take myself to dinner to honor both my own life and those whose lives were snuffed out on my day. I might cry. And I’d surely try to laugh.

Because September 11 falls on a weekend this year, I’m planning to spend Kevin’s birthday with him, doing whatever he feels is important to honor the day. He lives in Fargo, North Dakota; I live in St. Joseph, Michigan. We don’t see each other that often that we can pick nits about how to spend precious time we have.

So I have no preconceived notions about what we’ll do. It doesn’t really matter. Instead, the important thing is to be together, because that is what those who died on September 11 cannot do.