I remember it so clearly. It’s incredible that it’s been seven years. I had the tv on while I was getting ready for work. Walking back and forth between the bathroom and the tv in the bedroom. Once I saw the smoke and heard the broadcaster’s tone, I stood with wet hair trying to figure out – like the rest of the nation – what in the hell was going on.
Was San Francisco next?
I called my cousin in Texas to ask him what he knew. He hadn’t heard. He was so upset that he hung up the phone and ran to the tv.
Wet hair and all, I drove to church. I didn’t know what else to do. I sat stunned in the chapel. When the service was over, I couldn’t remember a thing that was said.
Afterwards I went to the community center where the tour meetings are held – that’s how I know it was a Tuesday. We stood in silence watching more tv - waiting.
Were we going to be next?
I remember asking my dear friend Sue, “How old is Ryan?” I knew her son was in high school, but I wasn’t sure just how old.
Was a draft coming?
We all stayed close to each other and the tv.
A day or two later, Kevin and I were on a roof, sort of in a daze, sort of doing an inspection. I said, “Do you hear that? It’s a plane.” We sat and listened to this solo plane crossing our airspace. Airspace – a new word to my everyday vocabulary.
I will never forget. I hope you won’t either.
Two thousand nine hundred eighty-three people were murdered that day.