memory

I was in 8th grade, my second period study hall, working on homework that wasn't important enough to remember now. A teacher from down the hall scrambled into our classroom with an announcement: a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. A few moments later, he rolled in a television and turned on the news. Other students took seats next to me. We watched as a plane hit the second tower, the news anchor unclear as to what she was explaining. I was confused, overwhelmed by the reactions around me, the commotion that soon followed. Within the next hour and a half, the elementary students were bused to our building and we were sent to our homeroom classes. My brother, nine at the time, watched a movie in our auditorium, unaware as to why. They didn't have a bomb shelter in his building. The phone rang every minute or so. Mr. Hayes shared as much information with us as he was able to. A terrorist attack. The Pentagon, too. Fifteen minutes later, my mom picked up my brother and me. My sister was already in the car. My dad wasn't reachable, but he also wasn't anywhere near the city; he was playing golf. Hundreds, thousands. September 11th, 2001 continued.

This morning I awoke in a world forever changed by the events of that day. I showered, ate, and solemnly reflected. Too many others have memories much more horrific than my own. My thoughts and my heart are with you.