On September 11, 2001, I was living in my Market Street duplex with Kevin, a friend of my sister's. Steve had moved in the month before, taking the upstairs bedroom, while my bedroom was downstairs in the basement, with it's own bathroom. I had stayed the night in Steve's room, so we woke up together to his alarm clock, which was set to The Mountain. Except the DJ wasn't familiar and someone was talking about New York and a plane that had hit a building.
Steve and I looked at each other in a sleepy stupor and said in unison, "What?"
We sat up, and Steve turned on the TV that was in his room. And we watched the second plane crash into the building. We flipped channels, wondering if it was real. But every station showed the same image. We sat on the edge of the bed, at 6:00am, and cried.
I remember thinking over and over, "What does this mean? What is life like to going to be like now?" I think Steve left for work, but I sat on the soft in the living room watching the news for two hours. I didn't call in to work, I didn't shower, I just couldn't move.
At some point, I did get cleaned up and made it into work, but no one was working.
I didn't lose anyone that day. I didn't know anyone on the planes, or anyone in the buildings. But I can't watch footage of those planes crashing, or the buildings crumbling, without weeping. I was 3000 miles away, on an opposite coast, but it was so personal.
It still is, as I sit here and watch raw footage on TV. I'm ready for this day to be over.
'Night.
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