12 years ago, I had just heard about my nieces being born. I’d gotten off the phone with my mom and was getting ready to go to work. When I turned on the TV, I was greeted by the image of a giant plume of smoke and the voice of someone (Dan Rather, maybe?) saying how he couldn’t believe what was happening and how awful this was.
Then there was the utter silence out here, 2000 miles away. At the time, we lived on a flight path and we were used to hearing planes overhead. Not that day. Or the day after. The day after that brought the military planes and helicopters in the overhead sky instead of “regular” planes. Funny how it didn’t seem to make things more normal.
I remember having a panic attack when the plane crash in Shanksville was described as being in “western PA”, and not being able to call my friend or any relatives for several hours. I also remember loading up our dog in the car and starting out for town when I couldn’t reach K by phone. I passed him on the street, safe and sound and almost as freaked out as me.
12 years later:
“I feel so sorry for them.” A’s friend sounded sad. “They’ll never have a regular, normal birthday.”
Nope. There are a lot of other people who were born on that day who won’t have that, either. I wish that things were different. But they are what they are, and the girls seem to be dealing with having a birthday on 9-11-01.
There are a lot of things that I’m thinking about when I think about 9-11. But mostly I think about our babies.