Ten years, two months, and 26 days ago, 33 passengers and seven crew members of United Airlines Flight 93 were flying to San Francisco. For some of them, San Francisco was home; for others, it was a business destination or a layover en route elsewhere. We know, of course, what happened that day: none of them reached their various destinations. On our way home, following a Thanksgiving gathering with our children, John and I took a brief detour on the drive through Pennsylvania to the rural hamlet of Shanksville. We wanted to pay our respects to those souls lost when the hijacked plane went down in an open field, following the valiant efforts of many passengers and crew members. Those heroic people very likely saved the U.S. Capitol from a terrorist attack on that devastating day of tragedy. The Flight 93 National Memorial, if you have yet to make the pilgrimage, is a place like no other. I have not yet collected my thoughts about the experience; all I can tell you is that my heart was literally heavy as we drove the long, winding road toward the memorial marking the site. I took a few pictures, and, for now, will let them speak for me. We are home and glad to be home, and mindful of those who were unable to complete their journeys.