Eleven years marks only a short span of time…ten years from this day, after two decades, I will look back and say that this is nothing. But today, is seems like so long ago.
I remember the scent of the grass, the heat of the sun on the cracked and faded black pavement of the old parking lot, stray bits of grass growing up through the cracks, crushed beneath our trampling feet. I remember, cold and smooth, the metal pole beneath the soft tips of my childish fingers, bent at the center, our favorite place to play, stretching our short legs to jump over and feel as if we are tall. I remember the blue sky above our heads, soft white clouds like polka dots, untouched by smoke and flying debris. I remember the faded red brick of the old two story school house that has sat vacant for years, unused and forgotten in this little town. I remember the house, white and tall, with the garden in the back filled with flowers my mother has taught us to grow. I remember the passing of a car on the road so seldom used. I remember the cemetery, seemingly untouched by time, with the uneven path leading to the campus grounds, where monks and students walk peacefully on their way to prayer. I remember paradise.
My mother’s face, the stretched out fabric of her blue and white striped shirt that has so often been prey to my small hands, tugging at her, desperate for her attention, and the way she folded her hands in prayer, I can remember. I only need to close my eyes and I can see her stand there, clear as day, and see the wind stirring her dark brown hair. My father, I remember him, too. His dark hair and glasses, face grim as he stands beside my mother, folding his hands just as she folds hers. They’re frozen in my memory, standing before us.
My sister and brother freeze beside me. I am the last to stand still, swiping my long blonde hair out of my eyes. Their words have been wiped from my memory, unimportant details that my young mind was too foolish to remember. But I recall folding my hands in prayer, mimicking my parents as my older sister did the same. She folded her hands so sweetly, dark hair framing her pale face, so serious as she sensed our trouble. My little brother, with his tousled red hair, copied us as best he could.
We prayed, copying our parents, small tongues stumbling over the words as the breeze blew gently, whispering in our ears. I don’t remember what it whispered to me, another detail lost to time.
The small TV screen contained our whole world. Every pair of eyes was glued to the screen, unable to move, frozen to the image of the towers falling.
Falling down, falling down….the nursery rhyme now calls to mind the sorrow as we watched the towers fall. They seemed to take eternity. To my small self, they were just an image on a screen. “Hurry up and fall already,” I wanted to cry. And then they did. Over and over. They tumbled to the ground, great masses of crumbling concrete, twisted metal beams, melted glass, all ablaze, belching clouds of thick black smoke into the sky, covering out world in darkness. Over and over the station replays it so that the whole world can see in detail the death of our country. The safety we have struggled to retain for hundreds of year, gone in an instant, brought down with the falling of the first tower, a mess of broken dreams, shattered and marred beyond recognition, darkening the skies.
I remember my mother’s face as she watched the screen, almost filled with grief and despair. Not the fear so many felt, just sorrow. In our small world, even we were touched by this.
But what I remember most is the people falling.
They leapt from the burning buildings, appearing in the windows like shadows, looking down as if they are afraid, then forced to leap by the flames licking at their backs and the smoke that will suffocate them if they turn back.
Launching into the air they are frozen in time for just an instant, gracefully, beautiful, immortalized in that moment before gravity pulls them down. They plummet toward the earth, accompanied by smoke and falling debris, crashing down onto the unforgiving pavement like baby birds who have failed to learn to fly. They flap their wings helplessly, in one last, desperate attempt to fly. And then they fall.
Did they close their eyes as they fell, or watch the world whiz by, their lives flashing before their eyes in a slideshow of smoke and falling rubble? Did they close their eyes at that last second, before they hit the ground? Were they watching when they died?
I remember the day the Twin Towers fell. Eleven years ago, and time still ticking. It’s so strange to look back on that day, and the small child I was, only just beginning to understand that the destruction that was bringing grief into my happy home would reach the four corners of our country, and bring the same sorrow into every home. It’s strange to watch the documentaries on the television, all these years later, and to think “I remember this.”
I remember the scent of the grass, the heat of the sun on the cracked and faded black pavement of the old parking lot, stray bits of grass growing up through the cracks, crushed beneath our trampling feet. I remember, cold and smooth, the metal pole beneath the soft tips of my childish fingers, bent at the center, our favorite place to play, stretching our short legs to jump over and feel as if we are tall. I remember the blue sky above our heads, soft white clouds like polka dots, untouched by smoke and flying debris. I remember the faded red brick of the old two story school house that has sat vacant for years, unused and forgotten in this little town. I remember the house, white and tall, with the garden in the back filled with flowers my mother has taught us to grow. I remember the passing of a car on the road so seldom used. I remember the cemetery, seemingly untouched by time, with the uneven path leading to the campus grounds, where monks and students walk peacefully on their way to prayer. I remember paradise.
My mother’s face, the stretched out fabric of her blue and white striped shirt that has so often been prey to my small hands, tugging at her, desperate for her attention, and the way she folded her hands in prayer, I can remember. I only need to close my eyes and I can see her stand there, clear as day, and see the wind stirring her dark brown hair. My father, I remember him, too. His dark hair and glasses, face grim as he stands beside my mother, folding his hands just as she folds hers. They’re frozen in my memory, standing before us.
My sister and brother freeze beside me. I am the last to stand still, swiping my long blonde hair out of my eyes. Their words have been wiped from my memory, unimportant details that my young mind was too foolish to remember. But I recall folding my hands in prayer, mimicking my parents as my older sister did the same. She folded her hands so sweetly, dark hair framing her pale face, so serious as she sensed our trouble. My little brother, with his tousled red hair, copied us as best he could.
We prayed, copying our parents, small tongues stumbling over the words as the breeze blew gently, whispering in our ears. I don’t remember what it whispered to me, another detail lost to time.
The small TV screen contained our whole world. Every pair of eyes was glued to the screen, unable to move, frozen to the image of the towers falling.
Falling down, falling down….the nursery rhyme now calls to mind the sorrow as we watched the towers fall. They seemed to take eternity. To my small self, they were just an image on a screen. “Hurry up and fall already,” I wanted to cry. And then they did. Over and over. They tumbled to the ground, great masses of crumbling concrete, twisted metal beams, melted glass, all ablaze, belching clouds of thick black smoke into the sky, covering out world in darkness. Over and over the station replays it so that the whole world can see in detail the death of our country. The safety we have struggled to retain for hundreds of year, gone in an instant, brought down with the falling of the first tower, a mess of broken dreams, shattered and marred beyond recognition, darkening the skies.
I remember my mother’s face as she watched the screen, almost filled with grief and despair. Not the fear so many felt, just sorrow. In our small world, even we were touched by this.
But what I remember most is the people falling.
They leapt from the burning buildings, appearing in the windows like shadows, looking down as if they are afraid, then forced to leap by the flames licking at their backs and the smoke that will suffocate them if they turn back.
Launching into the air they are frozen in time for just an instant, gracefully, beautiful, immortalized in that moment before gravity pulls them down. They plummet toward the earth, accompanied by smoke and falling debris, crashing down onto the unforgiving pavement like baby birds who have failed to learn to fly. They flap their wings helplessly, in one last, desperate attempt to fly. And then they fall.
Did they close their eyes as they fell, or watch the world whiz by, their lives flashing before their eyes in a slideshow of smoke and falling rubble? Did they close their eyes at that last second, before they hit the ground? Were they watching when they died?
I remember the day the Twin Towers fell. Eleven years ago, and time still ticking. It’s so strange to look back on that day, and the small child I was, only just beginning to understand that the destruction that was bringing grief into my happy home would reach the four corners of our country, and bring the same sorrow into every home. It’s strange to watch the documentaries on the television, all these years later, and to think “I remember this.”
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