This year, 9/11 is on a cloudy Sunday morning. It seems especially quiet outside where my husband meditates in the courtyard while I watch my baby practice waving and clapping his hands.
Ten years ago.
I remember waking up to my phone ringing, a little early for a Tuesday morning.
Ann told me to turn on the TV.
I did and thought, why are they showing Independence Day on ABC on a Tuesday morning?
Nope. That was the real news.
I remember driving to work, listening to Howard Stern and being touched by this new vulnerable, shaking voice. I called my parents in Michigan to make sure they were safe. We were all trying to figure out what/where/how/when “safe” was. Nobody knew.
I remember looking up at the sky, waiting to see a plane fly into something. Waiting for our turn.
I remember watching TV all day at work. Too shocked to cry. No one could work but no one wanted to go home, either. We searched each others eyes for answers. Being left alone to process the unfathomable was completely unappealing.
I remember going to Venice Beach that evening for a candlelight vigil. No planes. Nothing in the sky but stars. We all commented on how we would never experience such an empty sky again.
Ten years later.
I’m still friends with most of those co-workers.
There’s nothing pleasant about flying.
My son has no memories of 9/11.