Seven Years

Bsd
I didn't even know what day it was today. I rushed out to babysit this morning, too tired to turn on my computer. I don't own a radio or a TV. I don't get a daily newspaper. It was any other day to me, one of those funny fall days, where the sky hasn't decided if it wants to be sunny or cloudy, and the air brings with it a taste of winter crispness.
I came home and ate lunch, lolling on my bed, eating sushi and reading a novel. Knowing that I had to return to my babysitting job in a few minutes, I decided to get my first internet fix of the day. And that's how I remembered it was September 11th.
After debating the value of personal remembrances of historical events with a fellow blogger, it seems appropriate to share my own:
September 11, 2001
6:30 AM
The voices from my radio alarm stream through my subconscious until, with a groan, I awaken. Immediately, I realize something is wrong. I'm thirteen, and I don't know what the World Trade Center is. Still in my pajamas, dazed with sleep, unsure of what has happened, I walk quietly down the stairs to my parents' room. My mother sits in her bed, my brother curled up next to her, eyes on the small television that she keeps in her room.
The towers are burning.
8:30 AM
I stand on the lawn in front of my friend's house, backpack in its customary position on my back, feet cold from the morning dew that still lies wet on the grass. We've gathered for our carpool, and are now waiting for our parents to find out if there is school today. If there was a fourth plane. If there are threats on San Francisco. I can't imagine going to school. I can't imagine not going.
10:30 Am
The principal of my school stands at the podium, leading us in saying Tehillim. Twenty five kids sit on shul benches, saying Tehillim. Half of them don't even know why. They won't know until they're old enough to learn about today in history class.
4:30 PM
Driving across the Bay Bridge, Daniel decides that the man driving the gasoline truck next to us is an Arab, and we're all going to die. None of us believe him - but we're not quite sure he's wrong, either.
6:30 PM
My sister calls from Chicago. There are girls crying in her dorm, for uncles and aunts who were in the Towers. We hear the first miracle story from her, the first "I stopped to give tzedakah/drive my kid to school/learn a little/make a phone call/missed the train/lost my job and it saved my life" story. But there are still girls crying.

My kids will never know that you used to be allowed to walk people to the gate and hug them before they went on the plane and watch as that plane taxied down the runway and flew into the air.
Unless I tell them.
Tell your story.