On 9/11/01, I woke up to the phone ringing–my boss (and friend) telling me not to come in to work, and to turn on the TV. “We’ve been attacked!” she yelled, and hung up the phone.
I turned on the television to an astounding sight: a smoking world trade center tower. But then, minutes later, another plane, tiny on the screen, looped onto the screen and crashed into the remaining tower, as if on purpose. Wait. Not as if on purpose. On purpose.
I screamed. My husband came running into the room.
Life changed from then on. I blogged throughout the day, in real time, conveying shock and grief.
My husband had taken those flights to and from New York, nearly every weekend–until we could no longer bear his travel. He had quit that job just a few months earlier. We held each other tightly.
People jumped out of the towers, a leap to death, much more comfort than whatever hell was happening inside the buildings. There were voicemails sitting on answering machines of loved ones from passengers inside those airplanes–I imagined obsessively playing the message over and over if it had come from my beloved.
From that day on, I have slept with the telephone whenever my husband is on a business trip. I never want to miss a last call like that.
The other day I watched “United 93” on the television. I was flipping channels, it was there, I watched. I cried nearly the whole time–of sadness for the families, for bravery, for all we have lost as a country.
May there be peace in the world soon.