For a week, I have been trying to escape -- change the channel, watch a movie, anything but the recurring images of Sept. 11, 2001. It was all I dealt with at work, and all I didn't want to deal with at home.

On Sept. 11, 2002, I didn't participate vicariously in a memorial ceremony by watching TV. In the morning, I switched on a newscast and checked a Web site just to make sure al-Qaida hadn't struck again, put on a somber gray and black suit and laced up my sneakers. It was time to take a walk.

With only a few other mourners, I spent Wednesday morning at Arlington National Cemetery among the three rows of gravestones that all bear the same date of death.

Morning traffic as usual around the District of Columbia. The noisy planes overhead. A county crew trimming the hedges along a roadside. Past the Iwo Jima memorial, past the large stage set up for a memorial evening concert, and through a wrought-iron gate.

I walked a mile at least, passing row after row of white headstones, glad I had worn sneakers and left my dress shoes in my satchel. Wind whistled through the trees. Finally, I reached my destination. It was true, what I had read: You can see the looming corner of the Pentagon clearly. The defense building was right across the highway. On a hill, the Navy Annex displayed a huge American flag.

As I approached the graves, I could see flowers and small American flags placed at each one. It's against cemetery policy to plant flags on any day other than Memorial Day, but if anyone deserved an exception to the rule, these people did. A man in a dark business suit stopped before each grave, reflecting and remembering friends, perhaps coworkers. The wind carried music from far-off ceremonies. We thought, or hoped, it was the "Star-Spangled Banner." As 9:37 a.m. arrived -- the time American Airlines Flight 77 struck its target -- the suited man turned and faced the Pentagon, placing his hand over his heart. We all did the same. I, the supposedly tough-skinned reporter, choked up. I had been the stronghold for others one year ago, but now, for the first time since the attacks, I cried.

After holding back emotions long enough to chat with a cemetery director, I started the long trek to the Metro station, eventually to work. As I was leaving the cemetery, a rumble became a roar. I jerked my head skyward as my stomach dropped, afraid of what I might see. But it was not another attack. It was an Air Force fly-over, signaling the conclusion of ceremonies at the Pentagon. I watched the four jets streak by with relief.

The tears came back.