The Day After
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Here I am in the first few minutes of September 12. I know most people who posted reflections of September 11, 2001 did so yesterday – the 6th anniversary. A day of remembrance. I wanted to have the full day to reflect and see how I felt before I sat down to commit my thoughts to the written word.
I heard a radio commentator ask his listeners if we thought we had let a lot of th shock stop hitting us. I suppose I have to say that yes, I feel a lot more of what I thought was peace lately. Upon further reflection, I was a little ashamed to realize that it might be some level of apathy sinking into my heart.
Had six years healed me or has it caused me to begin the process of forgetting?
I am not entirely sure.
I feel like I have lived a lifetime of blissful heights and deep, dark lows in the past six years. Fear is beginning to dissipate for me, but I think it is being replaced by a feeling of indignant anger.
On the morning of 9/11, I was in my office. I worked at a manufacturing company as the director of the art department. I always arrived at work, got a big glass of water, and set right about my tasks. A co-worker of mine liked to have a cup of coffee and check the headlines before he started his day.
“A plane hit the World Trade Center,” said Rick. I immediately envisioned a small, single engine plane.
We all logged onto the news sites at that point. The only one I could get to come up that day was USA Today. I refreshed every few minutes. Across the hall, another coworker went into he President’s office and turned on his little b/w portable TV. Our boss was actually in Jerusalem at this time. How frightening that must have been.
Work did not get done that day. We all stood together and watched on that tiny, colorless screen as the towers fell. I remember that I had been sobbing, wondering how the people on the floors about where the planes had hit would escape. I was thinking that as the first tower fell.
My husband at the time was home in bed when the whole mess began. I remember calling to wake him and tell him to turn on the TV. I remember out frequent calls to one another that day. I remember calling my father, who worked in a prominent government building at the time. I was praying they would evacuate. I remember my frantic calls to my dozens of friends who live in Manhattan; calls that never went through.
I cannot remember if I stayed home from work in the days after 9/11. I do remember watching news for days and days at home when I was in the house.
I remember our concern as my husband went on a job interview that had been scheduled for September 12. He has an Arabic sounding surname and is olive skinned. We worried people might reflect their fear and hate onto him. Thankfully they never did.
Like most of you, I could go for pages about my memories of that day. Instead I will end my entry and leave you with this:
Let us feel the scars in our hearts.
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