“Today, our nation saw evil, the very worst of human nature. And we responded with the best of America.”

— President George W. Bush, September 11, 2001

Twenty-five years ago, I was having breakfast. Nothing dramatic. Nothing memorable. Just breakfast. I was President of a Perkins franchisee in Cincinnati, and that morning I was meeting with Bill Fee, the General Manager of WCPO, Channel 9, we were both on the Board of Directors of the local chapter of the March of Dimes. Bill, who passed away several years ago, was someone I knew and respected.

I don't remember what we talked about over breakfast. I don't remember what I ordered. I don't remember how long we were there. But I remember what happened when I went to pay the check. People were talking about a plane that had hit a building in New York. That was it. A plane had hit a building.

There was no immediate talk of terrorism. No one was using words like attack or hijacking. At least where I was standing, the assumption seemed to be that there had been some kind of horrible accident. An airplane had somehow flown into the World Trade Center. How could that happen?

Then came the second plane. And everything changed.

One airplane hitting one building could be an accident. Two airplanes hitting two buildings wasn't. By then, it was becoming clear that America was under attack. September 11, 2001.

If you were old enough on September 11, 2001, chances are you can still answer country singer Alan Jackson's question: Where were you when the world stopped turning?

I was in Cincinnati. But one detail immediately made what was happening in New York feel much closer to me.

Both of the planes had taken off from Boston. Logan Airport. I knew Logan well. I had flown in and out of it many times. It wasn't some distant place I had seen on television. I knew the terminals. I knew the roads. I knew the airport. Somehow that made it more personal. Maybe I knew someone on those flights?

I went home. And, like millions of Americans, I turned on the television. I don't remember turning it off. For the rest of that day, we watched something that seemed impossible. The towers. The smoke. The Pentagon. People running. First responders running the other way - toward the danger. And then Pennsylvania.

United Flight 93 never reached its intended destination. By then, passengers aboard the plane had learned enough from telephone calls to know what had happened in New York. They understood that their plane was part of the attack.

Think about that for a moment. They were ordinary people who had gotten onto an airplane that morning expecting to go somewhere, just as millions of us had gone to work, just as I had gone to breakfast. There was no reason for them to believe this day would be different from any other day.

And then they were confronted with an unimaginable decision. They understood that taking action could cost them their lives. They also knew what might happen if they did nothing. So they acted.

The plane went down in a field in Pennsylvania rather than reaching Washington. There are moments when the word courage seems inadequate. That is one of them.

In the days, weeks and months after September 11, musicians tried to put into words what the rest of us were struggling to understand.

Toby Keith captured the anger. His Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue wasn't subtle. Neither was America particularly subtle at that moment. We were angry. We had been attacked. People wanted those responsible held accountable.

Alan Jackson captured something different. He asked a question: Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)?

That song has always stayed with me because it wasn't really about politics or revenge. It was about people. Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with? Did you call someone you loved? Did you pray? Did you cry? Did you turn on the television and sit there for hours trying to comprehend something that couldn't possibly be happening - but was?

Twenty-five years later, those questions may be even more powerful.

But there is something else I remember about the days after September 11. We were united. Really united.

American flags appeared everywhere. Strangers talked to one another. Police officers and firefighters were thanked rather than simply passed on the street.

People, including me, lined up to donate blood. Communities gathered.

Political differences certainly hadn't disappeared, but for a while they seemed much smaller than what we had in common. I have said for years that there are two things that can bring people together: a common enemy or a common goal.

On September 11, we suddenly had a common enemy. And for a time, we also had a common goal. We were Americans. We were going to take care of one another. We were going to get through this. Together. Some of that has been lost in the last 25 years.

A quarter century has passed. Children who weren't even born on September 11, 2001, are now adults. For them, 9/11 is history. For those of us who lived through it, it is something different. It is memory.

And memory is a funny thing. I can't tell you what I had for breakfast that morning. But I can still picture myself walking up to pay the check and hearing people talking about an airplane hitting a building.

I can remember the moment when the second plane changed everything. I can remember going home. I can remember watching television. I can remember the feeling that the world we had awakened to that morning was not the same world we were going to bed in that night.

And I remember the unity that followed.

Perhaps that is the part worth thinking about 25 years later. I certainly don't want another common enemy. None of us should. But perhaps we could use a few more common goals.

Maybe we shouldn't need a national tragedy to remind ourselves that there are things more important than our disagreements. Maybe we shouldn't need buildings to fall before we notice the people standing beside us. Maybe we shouldn't need tragedy before we call someone we love, thank a first responder, help a stranger, fly a flag, or remember how fortunate we are to wake up on what appears to be an ordinary Tuesday morning.

That may be the observation that stays with me most.

• Hundreds of people boarded airplanes.
• Firefighters reported for their shifts.
• Parents kissed their children goodbye.
• People complained about traffic.
• Someone was running late.
• Someone was worried about a meeting.
• Someone was probably irritated because the coffee wasn't ready.

Ordinary life. And then, in a matter of minutes, ordinary became unforgettable.

Twenty-five years later, we rightly remember the nearly 3,000 people who died. We remember the first responders. We remember the passengers of Flight 93. We remember the families whose lives changed forever.

But perhaps we should remember something else too. For a brief time after one of America's darkest days, we looked at one another a little differently. We noticed what we had in common. We remembered that we belonged to something larger than ourselves.

Twenty-five years later, I hope we never again need a common enemy to rediscover that feeling. Maybe a common goal will be enough.

Never forget.

Not only what happened. Not only those we lost. But who we became afterward.

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