MEMOIR
When the Towers Fell
The day that the world changed forever
The year is 2001 and it’s a bright September morning. I’m five and a half years old and still young enough that I take great pride in those extra six months of experience. My world is caterpillar hunts, alphabet lessons and an undying excitement for the next episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.
The smell of Eggo waffles is in the air, but there are thick plumes of smoke emerging from some tower on my mom’s TV screen. She looks hurt, but I can’t understand why. There’s a coffee mug in her hand and a gentle, fragrant steam sliding along her absentminded face.
Her fingers are clenched clammily around the ceramic. Her cheeks are blanched and frozen. Her eyes vacillate between vacant and a dam at the verge of bursting. The coffee-scented mist rises toward the ceiling slowly and crashes with a muted violence along the graying surface.
“Mom, are you okay?”
She doesn’t appear to hear me.
“Mom?”
Her eyes remain locked on the TV screen.
“Mom?” I repeat again with a nudge as she emerges imperceptibly from a trance. A mixture of numbness, fear and indecision have colored her tired face. She lets her coffee go cold in her hands and after a few…
