Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was one of those late summer days that help you endure the brutal, long winters we have in North Dakota. The sky was Robin’s egg blue, the glorious clouds were like cotton balls glued on to construction paper and the sun was shining, reaching every nook and cranny of our apartment. I had survived taking my son to his first day of Kindergarten. And now we were three or so weeks into the ritual of school mornings. Eighteen years ago, Quinn and I were getting ready to walk to school. We were switching back and forth between Dragon Tails and Good Morning America. I had it on GMA…