I’ve been thinking today, off and on while washing dogs, and driving, and other moments. And though I didn’t get to post on the day of, due to another very loooong day at work, and a yet-again fritzing computer, well… no one will hold it against me, I trust.

September 11, 2001. Second year since that day, and while I did not watch any of the memorials, did not listen to any of the radio shows, and did not read any of the articles, it was in my thoughts all day. I found myself looking out for cops and firefighters and passing idle ambulances – not to avoid them or a ticket, but so I could smile, wave. I thought about buying donuts and bagels and taking them to the nearest police station. If I’d had the money, I probably would have, but the fact remains that I’m broker than most vinyl records. I settled for having lunch with a friend, and tying new red, white, and blue ribbons on my car antenna, with a black bow at the top. It saddened me to see how quickly they frayed, even in the drive home, and I’m not entirely sure why.

For me, it started as another morning getting ready for work. Mr. B was gone, so I had the place to myself. They were on a trip to China, a vacation. My mother was on the selfsame tour, being an employee of the travel agency who organized it, and working during it. Mr. B has an alarm clock, but it’s set to talk radio, and it goes off early in the morning. It also shuts off automatically though, so when it came on, I felt no need to shut it off, despite the fact that I hate talk radio. I wasn’t awake enough to really care. Just to sort-of listen, sort-of brush my teeth and squint into the mirror.

Now, my mother had made this same trip several times before. All I knew was when they were supposed to get back, having not been particularly interested in what airline, what schedule. From those previous trips, I had a vague idea of the way it was usually scheduled. When the first plane hit, I stopped. It was announced, of course, on the radio, whose voice had been droning in the background and that I’d been ignoring. Maybe it was the tone that caught my attention. Maybe I had just finally started to wake up. I remember sitting there, and listening, even until the second plane struck.

That’s when I became afraid. In all the other trips my mother had worked on, as far as I knew, they had had a layover in New York. That early, of course, the flight number wasn’t released. Did they have a layover this time? What airline were they on? When were they due back exactly? I called my stepfather, Brad. Of course, he didn’t know much more than I did. He was now attached to the phone, though. He told me to go to work. So to work I went. It was not a good day. I remember snapping at someone who wouldn’t leave me alone and only wanted to talk about it, as everyone was talking. At the end of my shift, I went home. My stepfather was strained, my brother was panicked. All we knew by that time was that the country was scrambling, and that it wasn’t my mom’s flight. And yet, they didn’t know about others, either. My mother hadn’t called, and they had no word on her flight. I turned on the television.

It may seem strange, but I hadn’t looked at TV all day. My instinct wasn’t to flick on the set when I heard the news. If it had been, no doubt I would have reacted almost as badly as my brother did. Seeing it for the first time almost hurt. My chest ached so hard I couldn’t believe it. Oddly enough to me now, I didn’t cry until several days later, when on the phone with a friend. Too numb, maybe? I don't know. Maybe it was just finally talking about it. All my words until then had had to do with finding out about my mom and Mr. B, and if they were all right, when they would be home. Seeing the impact... I can't describe what it made me feel. So many things at once. And yet I stayed there, watching, like some deer caught in the gleam of headlights.

My mother and Mr. B had their own adventure, of sorts. They were in the air, and fighter pilots came up to escort them. Their plane's radio wasn't working or something, because they couldn't reply to the jets. Not a good thing at the time. They were escorted, like many many others, to an airport in Canada. They couldn't come home until the borders opened again. But they came home.

The first anniversary of that day, I thought about everyone else. All the people who lost lives, all the ones left behind, and those around me. I sorrowed.

This time, my thoughts were different. I thought about the people who helped, and about the ones who would still help, and about my family. I took joy in still having it whole.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing.

Kaz