I had a random post planned for today and then I got a weekly email from one of my daughter’s teachers where she keeps parents in the loop with assignments, test dates and discussions. This is much appreciated, as pulling such info from a 13 year old is quite a chore. I can barely get her to say, “Good morning.”

This sentence of the teacher’s email stopped my post-writing in its tracks: I will also use some religion and social studies time…to talk about 9/11. I am entering those years where none of the students have any memory of something that was so lifechanging for all of us.

It’s hard to believe that a day so crisp in my memory, is not even a glimmer in the child’s with whom I spent that fateful day. I’ve told my daughter the story over and over; how she was watching Barney, my husband called, we went to the library, they sent everyone home, I watched the south tower fall and fell to my knees, then watched both towers fall over and over and over until it was all I could dream about that night. I’ve told her about the beautiful blue sky and the quiet. It was so quiet. It’s odd that among the terror and chaos, what stands out to me is the silence and stillness of that day.

But, she doesn’t remember because she wasn’t even three years old and part of me is very glad about that.

I will keep remembering for both of us.

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I sat down at my keyboard this morning ready to type a lighthearted post. I am pressed for time (what else is new?) and looked down at the clock on my monitor to note it and keep myself to a strict 20 minute limit. Then I saw the date.

9/9/2011

And, I completely erased what I had started.

There is nothing lighthearted about being two days away from the 10th anniversary of the attacks. It is a date, 10 years old, that feels like yesterday; the images so clear that I am sure a decade could not have possibly passed.

Seeing the calendar takes me away from this still, quiet room. My mind, instantly, sees the Trade Center with smoke billowing from the sides. It sees faces looking up in terror, thousands of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and it imagines what it was like to be on one of those planes.

I can’t see a clear blue sky without thinking of that day. I can’t hear planes flying overhead and think nothing of it. That day changed every bit of normal that I ever felt.

I think about these people.

I wonder how to explain to my children that there are people who are, inexplicably, evil, or why they have had three cousins fight in Iraq and Afghanistan. One of our nephews is over there now. He was the ring bearer in my wedding 14 years ago; young enough to be called a kid…though, undoubtedly, now a man.

I see lives lost, lives changed and I see the world in an entirely different light. A light dimmed by my own skepticism and worry.

Next week, I will come back to this new normal and write again without consideration of the date. I will find humor in the mundane and laughter in the everyday.

But, I will never, ever forget.

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Ali was watching “Barney”.

We used to give her empty coffee cans and let her drum on them, but on this morning she had flipped one of them over and was using it as a stool just a few feet from the television. She had her hands on her knees and her head was tilted backward as she stared at the screen.

I was preparing to leave so the two of us could go to story-time at the library. It was the only place where I could watch her socialize and consistently see her be the last in line when they handed out a craft after the story. She never pushed or stepped in front of anyone. She would always turn and look at me and I would wave my hand forward and mouth, “Go! Get up there!”, but she never would.

I moved past her and her coffee-can chair to an open window and noted her frozen, I’ve-been-sucked-into-Barney state. I heard the sound of branches being chipped up by a tree service down the block. I heard dogs barking and cars driving by. After I shut the window and locked it, the phone rang. Ali didn’t blink an eye.

“Hello?”

My husband didn’t waste time with a greeting, “Hey, do you have the TV on?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Two planes hit the World Trade Center. Turn on CNN.”

I grabbed the remote and sat on the corner of the coffee table. As I changed the channel. I glanced down to notice a death-glare from my three year old.

“Wow”, I said. “That looks like an awful freak accident.”

“I don’t think it’s an accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on.”

“Well, we’re on our way to story-time so I’ll throw a tape in the VCR and watch it when I get home and let you know what I find out.”

I unwrapped a new tape, inserted it, hit record and we made our way to the library.

Ali and I found an empty space on the floor where we could peacefully settle in for the duration, but after ten minutes, story-time was abruptly canceled when an employee slipped the reader a note. It was on a small, yellow piece of paper and as she read it silently, I wished I could see through to the other side.

The woman reading calmly pulled off her glasses and said, “We’re going to stop here. You should all go home.”

Ten minutes later I was, again, in my living room. I stood in front of the television and hit the power button, I saw the second tower fall. I fell at the same time as it did.

I remember the pain as I crashed to my knees and cried out. I remember holding my daughter in my arms and reassuring her despite my sadness. I remember being very scared.

I sat in front of the television that entire day. I watched the towers fall over and over.

As the afternoon sun began to set, I went to the window and lifted it. There were no dogs barking, no cars driving past…not even the faint hum of an air conditioner. Just silence.

Then I flipped over Ali’s coffee can and turned on Barney.

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