Thursday, September 11, 2008


It's hard to believe that 7 years have passed since that strange, strange day. My son was only two years old. It was a bright, beautiful day, a local election day. My husband and I walked over to the elementary school to cast our votes with J in the stroller, and then I took J to daycare. When I got home, I sat down at the computer, and was on the phone with a friend. I remember seeing the words "plane hits Twin Tower" on the news feed at Yahoo. It did not register.

When I hung up from the call with my friend, the phone rang immediately. It was my husband. "There's going to be a war," he said, his voice dark. "Have you heard the news?"

I spent the rest of the morning in front of the TV, watching the unbelievable images. Even the reporters didn't know what to say when the first tower fell.

Daycare called around noon: they wanted us to pick up the kids early. Everyone was fearful of another attack. Many offices in Boston had closed. My husband's work let him out early as well, although he later told me that he was too sad to come home right away. Finally, he arrived home, and we took a walk, pushing J in his stroller to our little downtown area. The day was still bright and warm and sunny. Many stores were closed, with small handwritten signs: closed due to national emergency. We didn't know what to do. We didn't know what to say. Everything had changed.

As the days passed, we learned that people we knew had died that day: a father of a child at J's daycare, the brother of a friend. A group of women who worked at a local company. But even not knowing those who died, we still felt grief. And disbelief. Who could hate us so much, that they would kill fathers, mothers, husbands, wives? We still don't understand the hate today. And we still remember.

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