Like so many others, I remember exactly where I was. It was my second day of university, and I had just woken up an stumbled into the kitchen of my dormatory. My four roommates were huddled around the tiny 13 inch screen in the shared livingroom. I remember the burning buildings, and remember thinking it was weird they would be watching this movie so early in the day. "A plane struck a tower in New York", I was told. I remember thinking it was an accident, until I heard a second plane had hit. Bewildering, and life as we know it had changed. I was a week into my university career- my first week away from the safety of sleeping under my parent's roof at night.
It was also the day of my very first Political Science class- the program which was to be my major. I still remember sitting in the auditorium as my professor walked down the stairs towards the floor. He began, and ended our very first class by announcing "This is Political Science 101, and class is cancelled for the day. I suggest you go home and watch the news". I remember being terrified as I watched my professor, the head of our department, provide interview after interview on television that day.
I remember watching the coverage with bewilderment. Who would do this, and why? Who hated America enough to want to do this? I remember hearing Enrique Iglesias' "Hero" played over and over again, becoming a theme song for the events of September 11th.
The vision of people jumping from windows, ash and plumes of smoke, the flying papers scattered through-out the air- all things I'll never forget.
A few years ago my husband and I were at a bookstore when we came across a book with hundreds of photos and stories of everyday people. The Book contained collections of photos were taken by Magnum Photographers in Manhattan and they are a beautiful tribute to a day which will never be forgotten.
One of the quotes in the book was from a photographer named Steve McCurry. He wrote,
"Who would have ever dreamed that one tower would have come down, let alone two? It was just indescribable, the terrible sadness. You might just as well have told me that my mother or father had been killed in an accident, or that my best friend had died. It was sorrow of that magnitude".
There's a "then and now" mentality towards the events of that fateful day. What the world was like "before then" and what it's now like, as a result. I feel like, having now suffered a personal tragedy of my own, I finally understand a little something of what was lost in those days and weeks surrounding September 11th. I remember thinking how difficult it must be to move on with your life when someone is missing- a life unresolved.
In 8 short months since my son was first born and died, I am able to comprehend this a little better. To understand a little bit about what it takes to get out of bed every morning and try to do something with my day. It isn't always easy (and more often than not, it's exhausting), but some how I put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.
I didn't post on Jack's 8 month birthday this month, nor on the 9th of September from when he was declared. Today is September 12th, so I technically didn't post on the 8 month of his passing. I feel like I say the same thing every month : I miss him. I love him. I love his daddy, and I'm so thankful for his beautiful self. More every month than the last. That's all.
We're rapidly approaching the whole, "he's been gone longer than he was here" thing. Longer than he was here, in terms of how long I was pregnant with him. It's unbelievable to me still, that this is his story.