Five Years....

I remember thinking on that day, five years ago, wondering what this would feel like in one year? Five years? Ten? What would things be like? Would we be under siege the way it felt like we were on that day? Or would we somehow find peace?

Everyone has a story about where they were and what they were doing when this all began. I always feel ashamed talking about my story. After all, I was safe in Texas, far from the epicenters; I knew no one who died that day. I've never even been to New York. But I think a little something in all of us died that day. Innocence, maybe. Even for those of us who didn't think we had any innocence left in us. We discovered that we did and that moment of discovery was followed immediately by it's merciless death. Even now, five years later, the idea that four airplanes could be hijacked simultaneously and crashed into buildings still has an air of the surreal. Surely that didn't really happen. But it did, as I witnessed again this morning as I watched real-time replays of that day's events.

My son was three-years old at the time, almost four. He had begun preschool in August and Tuesday was a "school day" for him. His day started as always, with Clifford the Big Red Dog on PBS. I couldn't help but notice all the networks were tuned to the same story so I went to the second television to watch and see what the news was. At that time, everyone was still speculating - we were still innocent. Perhaps a private plane had strayed; perhaps the pilot had collapsed with a heart attack. All speculation centered on a tragic accident. In another 18 minutes, when the second plane crashed right there before our eyes, innocence died and we knew there was no accident. I was shaken and called my husband at work. He was difficult to find because he works for an airline. Not one that was involved on that day, but still, they were going crazy. I think they were a little ahead of the general public in terms of knowing that there were hijackings going on and that all those planes in the air were potential weapons searching out targets. My husband told me to take our son to school as usual. On the drive over, I heard about the Pentagon. My God, the Pentagon. I feared we were truly at war - not with terrorists, but another country. I took my son to school, kissed him goodbye and stopped in the school lobby to watch televion coverage with the other parents. The first tower fell. I went home and spent the rest of the day watching helplessly.

I didn't cry until about midnight that night. Watching the crawl under the news program and it mentioned how many children were on board one of the planes. And I thought of the sheer terror those children and their parents must have felt. What do you tell a child when you know and they know that death is imminent? How do you comfort anyone in those circumstances? I wept and continued weeping off and on for weeks. I thought my tears would never end. I cannot imagine the pain felt by those who actually lost friends and family. Who lived through that terror of not knowing up close. I wept everytime I saw the scar on the New York City skyline. Those two buildings, a testament to what greatness humans can achieve, brought down in a few hours. Gone forever. A scar, an amputation on the world's greatest city.

So every year, I bear witness so I won't forget that day, those feelings. I watch the news coverage; I watch my DVDs and cable documentaries. I look back and remember what it was to feel "American" for the first time. I've always taken my country for granted and never gave much thought to my national identity. I did then and I do now. But I was so proud (oddly) in those days following. We were all Americans; we exemplified, at least for a moment, what this country is really supposed to be. But that's gone now, too. Vaguely remembered like the New York skyline before 9/11.