I’m not asking where God was, I’m asking where you were.
I was working. The morning was going like all the rest. I was making phone calls, and the other co-workers were goofing off (as usual).
BM received the first phone call from AM. We didn’t believe her. The calls just kept rolling in.
I still didn’t believe till I (unknowingly) called New York. The response: don’t you know what is happening here? I didn’t. But I did – I just didn’t believe it was true.
We didn’t have a TV or radio in the office. BM went down the street to get one. The store was swamped with other people doing the same. She bought a radio and came back. We sat huddled around it for a little more than an hour before SM called and sent us all home.
I was glad to go: I had been starting to feel like we were in hiding.
As I drove home, I drove in silence. I somehow believed, if I didn’t hear it, it wasn’t true – it wasn’t really happening.
When I walked in the door at home, I heard the news on the TV. It was true. We were under attack. Not listening to the news wasn’t going to change that.
I still didn’t watch. It chewed up my stomach just thinking about it.
Then I heard: one of the pilots was from the same town I was living in. We passed his home weekly. I knew people who knew him.
This was real.
Twelve years later: people remember, but it seems only on the anniversary of the event do they remember.
Except for those who lost someone. They remember every day. Because every day they still miss the one that was taken. The one that didn’t have to die, but did.
Where were you on that day?