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Six years ago, I was living in Somerset County, New Jersey, and working at the main branch of the county library. I lived in a small town about an hour away from NYC where the oldest landmark was an oak tree that George Washington had sat under once (yes, really), and most of the homes in the town center were built before 1800.
Six years ago today, I did nothing remarkable. I got up, got ready for work, drove to work, and spent most of the morning on the phone and answering e-mails.
Six years ago tomorrow, my best friend was getting married in San Francisco, and I was supposed to be her maid of honor.
Six years ago this morning, I was supposed to be on a flight out of Newark headed for San Francisco. I wasn't, because there were no flights. I wasn’t, because four days earlier, a Newark to San Francisco flight had been one of four hijacked planes, and had gone down in a field in western Pennsylvania. Instead, I was sitting in my office, on the phone with the airline, arranging a refund on my ticket.
Six years. Four days. They aren’t dramatic numbers. I hadn’t really given it much thought in the intervening years. It’s not like I was booked on the September 11th flight and then cancelled at the last moment due to a premonition, or missed the flight only because I was stuck in traffic or anything like that. It’s simply that the hijackers chose the 11th, and not the 14th, for their attack. Random chance.
This year, though, as the calendar rolls around and the days of the week match up with the same dates that they had in 2001, I’ve been thinking about it more often. Thinking about the fact that six years ago, when I opened the windows of my apartment in the evenings, I could still smell the smoke from the towers collapse. And that the skies were empty and silent, except for the occasional engine noise of a patrolling fighter jet – a sound which managed to be simultaneously terrifying and reassuring. And that I will never be able to repeat the experience of standing on the outside observation deck on top of WTC 2 and feel like I’m standing on the edge of the world, exhilarated and scared to death, feeling slightly unbalanced because the ground beneath my feet is swaying mildly and really high up, and the wind feels strong enough to blow me over the edge if I just let go.
Thinking about the fact that I feel really lucky to be here to remember those things, and not having my name read off a list at a memorial service somewhere. All because of four days.
Six years ago today, I did nothing remarkable. I got up, got ready for work, drove to work, and spent most of the morning on the phone and answering e-mails.
Six years ago tomorrow, my best friend was getting married in San Francisco, and I was supposed to be her maid of honor.
Six years ago this morning, I was supposed to be on a flight out of Newark headed for San Francisco. I wasn't, because there were no flights. I wasn’t, because four days earlier, a Newark to San Francisco flight had been one of four hijacked planes, and had gone down in a field in western Pennsylvania. Instead, I was sitting in my office, on the phone with the airline, arranging a refund on my ticket.
Six years. Four days. They aren’t dramatic numbers. I hadn’t really given it much thought in the intervening years. It’s not like I was booked on the September 11th flight and then cancelled at the last moment due to a premonition, or missed the flight only because I was stuck in traffic or anything like that. It’s simply that the hijackers chose the 11th, and not the 14th, for their attack. Random chance.
This year, though, as the calendar rolls around and the days of the week match up with the same dates that they had in 2001, I’ve been thinking about it more often. Thinking about the fact that six years ago, when I opened the windows of my apartment in the evenings, I could still smell the smoke from the towers collapse. And that the skies were empty and silent, except for the occasional engine noise of a patrolling fighter jet – a sound which managed to be simultaneously terrifying and reassuring. And that I will never be able to repeat the experience of standing on the outside observation deck on top of WTC 2 and feel like I’m standing on the edge of the world, exhilarated and scared to death, feeling slightly unbalanced because the ground beneath my feet is swaying mildly and really high up, and the wind feels strong enough to blow me over the edge if I just let go.
Thinking about the fact that I feel really lucky to be here to remember those things, and not having my name read off a list at a memorial service somewhere. All because of four days.
