Day 161 — Remembering 9-11-2001

9-11 through the eyes of a 4-year-old.  

We were living in Indiana at the time.  We had our routine.  6-month-old Ghost Daughter was asleep in her crib while I helped Ghost Son get ready for preschool.  Usually I would flip the television to an episode of Rugrats before we ran our little buddy up to the church for preschool.  For some reason on that day ten years ago, I clicked over to the news for just a minute.  But that minute became devastating history that was unfolding before our eyes. 

The first plane had just hit the north tower.  "Mama, why is that building on fire?" my son asked.  At that point, no one really knew for sure what had happened.  All we knew is that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  As we listened to Matt Lauer speculate over the details and watched the smoke billow from the middle of the tower, the second plane crashed into the south tower.  At first, we could not see the plane that hit it.  But then the network found another camera angle that showed flight 175 arcing headlong into the tower, like a hawk swooping in to snatch its prey.  

We were stunned.  Speechless. Trying to believe what our eyes forced upon us.  Ghost Hunk was in the bedroom getting dressed to run our buddy to school while Ghost Son sat on the couch and nibbled on his poptart, unable to fathom the meaning of what was on the TV screen.  Was it a movie? Was it real?  30 minutes later, news came that a plane had crashed into the pentagon.  I screamed to Ghost Hunk, "They hit the Pentagon!"  We were under attack.  

Somehow, we made the choice to take Ghost Son to preschool as usual, only a mile or so away.  While the ghost men were gone, the north tower fell.  In a cloud of ash and debris and what remained of a thousand lives, it was gone.  "It's gone!" I said to Ghost Hunk when he walked in the door.  "It's just gone!"  He could not understand what I said.  He thought the smoke had simply obscured our vision.  

I had just stepped in the shower when Ghost Hunk came in, tears in his eyes.  "It's gone he said."  

"I know."

"No, it's gone.  All of it.  Both of the towers have fallen."

We held each other and cried.  As the day wore one, we heard of the heroism of the people on flight 93 who chose to stand up to the hijackers and crashed the plane into a field in Shanksville rather than let the terrorists take down the White House or the Capitol.  All day long, the images played on the TV screen.  I kept it on in the bedroom.  I could not turn it off.  While the kids played or watched Wild Thornberries in living room, I would duck into the bedroom for another look.  It just could not be real.  

Ghost Son knew something big had happened.  Something that would change our world forever.  He did not understand it all, but he was moved to draw it.  When he showed me this picture, I knew instantly what it was, but I asked him to tell me about it.  

"It's the fire, Mama.  And these are the people.  I want to show it to the bad men so they can see the people and maybe they'll feel bad and they won't do this anymore."

Let's hope that such lessons are possible, that such hope can rule the world instead of hate.  We did not know anyone who died in the attacks, but for all those who were lost or broken by the events of that day, we will never forget.