As in the 7 previous September 11ths since THE September 11th, I spent a good part of today remembering that day.
That day, like December 7, 1941, which will live in infamy for all of us who lived through it.
That day, when the first inkling I had that anything was wrong was an e-mail from my significant other at the time saying, “Check the news — I think someone crashed into the World Trade Center!” It was 9:12 a.m.
That day, when my sister called me from her job in Atlanta. She had only the radio to listen to, and didn’t understand fully what had happened. That both towers were gone. We talked a long time.
That day, when, feeling helpless, I grabbed the flag from our closet and hung it outside, wondering if the construction workers building the house next door knew what had happened as they watched me hang it.
That day, when, after all planes had been grounded, the rumble of a huge plane flying low sent me running to the deck to see. A worker on the deck next door did the same thing, cell phone in hand. We looked at each other and at the sky. The engines were so loud and the noise so extended, but we saw nothing. I thought it had to be a military plane.
That day, the first day I would never again regard a plane in the sky matter-of-factly.
That day, a day of tears that continued every day for the next month.
That day, when images from Ground Zero, played over and over, caused a visceral reaction every time — images that still give me chills, every time.
That day, the subject of an essay I wrote one week later, detailing everything that happened so I’d never forget. An account I’m so happy to have, because details do fade, and the memory does play tricks.
That day, the one that changed us forever.
That day, that awful, awful day.
Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
~ Edgar Allan Poe
Writing by Ear 