I think it's important to remember exactly how it happened.
I lived in Denver. I was 26 years old. Ashley and I were still dating, and I was working for a contractor downtown.
I was 15 minutes late for work that morning. Because I was running behind, I skipped the news while getting ready. Ashley drove me to work that day. I don't remember why. Because we were together in the car, we talked with one another and didn't listen to the radio.
We stopped at McDonald's to get breakfast. I remember ordering a Diet Coke and a McGriddle sandwich. It had bacon and egg and cheese on it. When I got to work, the building was oddly quiet. I got up to my office and set down my things. A group of people were huddled around each other at the office next to mine. I said my usual good mornings in the hallway. They stared at me. I thought they were staring because I was late. "You haven't heard, have you?" It was a male co-worker who said this to me. I don't remember his name. No. No, I hadn't heard.
It was Ms. Hitchcock, another project coordinator there, who pulled me aside and told me that a plane hit the World Trade Center that morning. She told me that for a while they thought it was an accident but that a 2nd plane had hit the other tower about 5 minutes ago, and now the news people were calling it terrorism. It took me a long time before what she said actually registered. My first thought was, "so there was a plane crash in New York. Why is everyone this upset?" I hadn't processed the hit the World Trade Center...building on fire...terrorism part. All I really heard was "planes crashed more than a thousand miles from here and everyone is walking around like a zombie." I went about my morning routine. I got a cup of coffee and went through my inbox. I took a bite of my sandwich. I was chewing when I had the strangest thought. I thought, "I wonder how many people in the World Trade Center were eating McDonald's for breakfast when they died." That was it. It finally landed on me what was happening. I threw the rest of my breakfast away and I never ordered another one of those sandwiches. For a long time afterward, I got physically sick whenever I saw a billboard or print ad for McDonald's breakfast.
I watched the reports of the following two crashes on streaming video. Most of my co-workers did, as well. No one talked anymore after a while. We all sat at our desks or mechanically went about tasks. Even those of us who smoked took the breaks without saying much. Everyone was in shock. Jessica Lopez saw me downstairs at around lunch time. She hugged me. We didn't cry. We went back to our respective desks and kept working. I don't remember if I ate lunch. I called Ashley. He worked at Radio Shack then. They were watching several of the news channels on the TV display models there.
On the way home, no one had on loud radio music. No one honked at anyone. No one was speeding. Even the rush hour commute, it seemed, was silent.
For the next week or so, I woke up every morning thinking, "I must have imagined that. It wasn't real." That was my very first thought upon waking every single day during those first several weeks. I don't remember how long it was before I stopped trying to believe it hadn't happened. I had to listen to music a lot to stop the thoughts. Sadness for the families who lost someone...guilt for being relieved that no one close to me had died...anxiety about the possibility of having it happen again in another city...calculating the odds of Denver being that city...more guilt for "making it about me" with that sort of thinking. Round and round it went. Anger was not one of my reactions. I have not been angry or enraged. I don't know why. That use to bother me because I thought it meant there was something wrong with me if I wasn't angry. I think I was too sad to be angry. I wanted justice. That was all I felt.
I don't understand people who say we shouldn't dwell on it...that we shouldn't watch the video again or read the timeline. I can't imagine brushing that morning to the back of my mind. We watched radical ideologues murder 3,000 Americans live on television. What benefit would anyone receive from forgetting that? I don't cry about it except on the anniversaries when I read the detailed timelines. I don't get all het up and angry about it. I don't dwell on it or fixate or obsess. I just remember it. I don't want to forget it, and that's not some corny greeting card or serial email line. I don't want to forget about it, and I don't want anyone else to, either.
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I read the timelines and remember the events of that morning on purpose every September 11th. After I do that, I try to remember everything I ever knew about Sara Low. She was two years older than me. My stepbrother had a crush on her his freshman year of high school. She was beautiful. She was so, SO kind. She had striking eyes that were sharp and almond shaped. She smiled a lot. I'm pretty sure she was in the band because I remember her in the marching band uniform. I think she played the flute. I'm not sure...it was a long time ago. She ran track (so did my brother) and she was a cheerleader and she was an honor student. That's all I can remember because we were children the last time I saw her...but I feel like the least I can do for her is remember her.
The reports online say that she was not originally scheduled to work on flight 11. After the hijacking began, she tried to call her parents, but she dialed the phone number they had when she was growing up instead of the current number. She didn't reach them that morning, but she gave one of the other flight attendants her calling card. The card was used to place five calls out with warnings before it was over. The report said Sara's father speculates that maybe because of the stress and fear...her childhood phone number was the only one she could remember. Every time I think about that, it makes my stomach knot. She was too good--in every way too good--to suffer that kind of fear. I hope she wasn't scared for a long time, and I hope someone was holding her hand.
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