9/11

So the tenth anniversary of 9/11 is around the corner, and of course all the science and history channels on TV started airing documentaries about that day. Tonight, Gabby watched one with my dad, and now she's upset about it and wanting answers.

We haven't talked about it until now because quite frankly, I didn't know what to say. As I tried to explain it to her, I found myself stifling my own tears because it still hurt like it did the day it happened.

This is a curious thing to me. Why hasn't the pain subsided with time?

I don't really have any answers or insights this time, I'm afraid.

I remember that morning. Michael was a few days shy of his first birthday. He was playing with his blocks on the floor while I dozed on the couch. Larry called me from work, and I was annoyed because he was in near hysterics, saying we were under attack. I actually got mad at him and yelled at him for it, thinking, like most Americans pre-9/11, that no one would be crazy enough to attack us on our own turf. Finally, he convinced me to turn on the TV, and what I saw will forever be seared into my memory.

I'm not talking about the towers collapsing, but about the people at the top of the towers beforehand who were trapped by the fires. They were leaping from the top stories. I remember thinking then, as I do now, how terrible their desperation must've been that they'd throw themselves from the 102nd story because they believed their chances of surviving were better.

I also remember the feeling that day, like I couldn't breathe. I was sure that somehow, our whole country was psychically connected, and I was feeling everything my fellow countrymen and women were feeling as if it were my own.

I stood in front of the TV for a few seconds, watching the terror unfold, and then my legs started to feel like jello and I collapsed.

Today, trying to explain that all to her, I felt the pain bubble right back to the surface.