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9/11 Never Forget
Posted: Sep-16-2009

Sep-2001 thru Sep-2009

Slowly and gently I rolled out of bed to find the t.v blaring downstairs. Six is an innocent age, far too young to ever see your mother cry. She was weak, tripping over her words, fighting to hide her sad expression. I tensed a little at the sound of her whimpering breaths. Finally, she gave up and reached for me, like a baby who wanted out of its crib. My body made its way over to her and slipped into her arms, where I belonged. I turned to the t.v to find planes, towers, and everything on the screen burning. A tower fell, smashing the ground, creating an ominous cloud of death. I couldn't understand why my mom would watch such a sick show, why watch what makes you cry? Then a reporter, teary-eyed but calm, popped up. Click! It all came together. My mouth fell and my face was quickly damp. There were no words to explain the terror I was witnessing. Dad was not home yet, that frightened me. I refused to loose my dad. As a truck driver there was no telling if he was in the city or not. My heart sank to the deepest pit in my stomach. My lungs felt as though they were full of lead and air was just slipping out. When everything was at a climax, heartbeats, fear, energy, the second tower was hit. I could not believe my eyes, my world was crumbling to pieces right in front of me. A shriek drew my own and my moms eyes away from the screen. Sad and lonely stood my older brother, crying and terrified. How could all this happen? I beckoned him over to me, a boy who needed comforting. The three of us sat in tensed silence, letting our sobs out gently. My eyes gracefully closed, allowing my last few tears to roll down my cheeks. All the voices silenced, my head was calm and clear. Just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness a voice broke my collectiveness. Dad, his distinct bass voice startled me. I leaped up and hugged him, happy to know he was alive. His sandpaper hands scratched my shoulders and I felt him heave up a saddened breath. My oldest brother, at nine, understood all that was happening. He sat alone, not wanting to be comforted but to deal with it on his own. We were all gathered on the couch, holding on to what was still here, each other. My little brother was upstairs, crying, not at the death and hate we were witnessing, but because of life. At that point, I couldn't tell whether life or death was worse. In horror we watched people running, from deadly smoke bigger than some buildings, screaming and crying with panicked looks on their faces. We had seen enough, and the t.v was shut off. The three children went to school that day to find everyone in ruins. Never will any of us forget that day of sheer horror.

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