Early this morning a plane roared low and loud over our house. Awakened by the noise, I said to my husband, "That sounded scary." I glanced over at the clock radio. 5:30 a.m., too early to get up. Still, today is September 11th, and that made me even more anxious than usual about low-flying planes.I was tempted to reach over and turn on NPR--just to make sure all was well.
But then I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
"Something loud in my room scared me."
I pulled my my almost three-year-old into bed next to me and we dozed together for a half an hour or so. On the off chance that there had been another terrorist attack, I wanted to hold onto a little piece of closeness. To soak up her sweet innocence for a few more minutes.
As I type this all is well, at least in our country. Still, I can't get through this date on the calendar without feeling as though I'm holding my breath, waiting for something bad to happen.
And remembering. Because September 11th, 2001 was a beautiful, breezy day, just like today. I knew a plane had hit the WTC before I left for work. My husband texted me news updates as I rode the Brown Line. "ANOTHER PLANE." "THIS LOOKS BAD."
Usually my ride to work was silent. This time it was different. Commuters were longing for information, for a connection with others. By the time I'd reached my office, I couldn't shake the goosebumps. We huddled around a co-worker's tiny black and white TV for 45 long minutes before we were sent home. Home, were we sat glued to the coach, switching from channel to channel and seeing the same horrifying images over and over.
