Ten years ago the clock radio woke us with the news that a plane had hit the world trade center. I wondered if it was an accident, Mike said he didn't think so. We heard that a second plane had hit the second tower, and I knew for sure, it was no accident.
It was a bright clear morning, ten years ago. The sky was a beautiful blue we get here in California that almost makes your eyes water just looking look at it. Outside the window I saw Mike looking up into the sky with is hands on his hips. No airplanes , he said, there are no airplanes flying. We live in the flight path to Camarillo airport and LAX, this was a notable thing, no airplanes.
We went about our morning routine, listing for news. I got the girls read for school, they we 8 and 11 at the time. The girls usually walked to their elementary school on their own, I decided I would walk the block and a half with them.
I wasn't alone in this decision, it was a silent parade of parents walking children to school, passing neighbors standing in their yards, looking at the sky with their hands on their hips. I think we were a nation with our hands on our hips that morning.
As we walked along my youngest asked if she would be safe at school, would a plane hit it, it has two stories, it's taller than a house. I told her I didn't think it was tall enough to be a target.
Daddy's work is the tallest building in town, I think he should come home, she said.
I watch the towers fall, the dust cloud pushing people before it. People covered in ash, clinging to their hair and eyelashes, no color in their clothes and skin, all gray, like moving marble statues in a Greek tragedy.
I stood in front of the television and I cried. I cried for the people losing their lives before my eyes.
I cried for my little girls most of all, I knew the world they would be growing up in was forever altered by this day.