Saturday, September 11, 2010

I was getting ready for work. I had just sat down, robe on, towel on my head, settling in to watch an episode of A Baby Story, as was my morning ritual. Before I changed the channel, I caught a breaking news story saying that a plane had crashed into the WTC. Bryan had just walked out the door to go to work, I called him back inside. He left a few minutes later, and I called my dad at work to tell him, but he already knew. I saw the other plane hit on live TV. I called him again almost immediately after, and he said "oh my God. Something's not right." Something was very definitely not right. I tore myself away from the coverage to get ready since I was already late, and the first tower fell while I was on my way to work.

Having two uncles working in NYC at the time, I lasted two hours before I couldn't take being in public anymore and went home. One uncle worked in Midtown, but he had a morning meeting on Long Island and never made it into the city that day. The other had worked in the Towers, so we were all terrified, but we didn't know until after the fact that his office had moved to a building a block away. We didn't hear from him until after 10:00 that night - that's how long it took him to get home. He'd watched the second plane hit from his office window, then ran 30+ blocks to Penn Station, where he waited for hours to get on a train.

It took me 3 days to cry. Just as I was getting home from work, whatever radio station I was listening to played Amazing Grace. I sat in the driveway and bawled.

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