It was a gorgeous September day. We had moved a few months prior and I was pulling construction debris out of the backyard: bricks, nails, pieces of cement and wood. When I went inside for some water, the phone rang. It was my art teacher, who urged me to turn on the television. At first, I could not comprehend what was happening, but then the second plane hit the tower and I was stunned.
I tried to call my husband who was on his way to Washington, DC, but he did not answer. His mother, who lived in Maine, called me to see where he was and I started to cry – he’s not answering, I don’t know where he is.
Thankfully, my husband heard the news on the radio and returned home. We were glued to the television, in shock. The images of people jumping out of the burning building are forever etched in my mind. I could not imagine their horror and fear. The chaos; the ashes; hundreds of people running. Then walking silently across the bridges from Manhattan. I will never forget the eerie quiet of the skies when the airplanes were all grounded. Or our admiration for the passengers on the flight that diverted the plane away from Washington, crashing into a field in Pennsylvania.
I wrestled with whether to pick up my three children early from their schools- elementary, middle and high- but thought it best for them to stay. My middle one later claimed that he and his friend were the only two left at school.
When I picked up my children, the youngest did not really know what had happened. Even though the buses headed towards Wolf Trap for the Children’s Festival had been turned around and children were picked up by their parents, the elementary school opted not to tell their students anything.
My middle-schooler knew something serious had happened, but had not seen the photos or knew of the details.
When I reached the high school, with a population of over 3,500 students, it was deathly quiet. Hundreds of students poured out of the doors, saying nothing. They had watched the footage; they had seen the carnage. No laughter, no kidding around, no running. Just hundreds of teenagers walking quickly and quietly to their cars and buses. Many of them had parents who worked at the Pentagon; they understood what had happened that day.
It was a beautiful, yet terribly tragic September day. A day none of us will ever forget.