Ten Years Later, It Still Hurts

I wasn't going to watch today. Honestly, I really wasn't. I didn't even want to listen to the rememberance programming that was playing on the radio when I woke up. The wound left behind by the events of that beautiful fall morning ten years ago is still pretty raw; reliving that day has been a painful exercise every year since. But apparently I am a glutton for punishment and turned on Fox News, bracing for the images and sounds of that fateful morning as they went through their on-air timeline as the attacks happened, as President Bush was informed in front of a room full of elementary school children with the press corp standing in the back, and as those two giant towers came crashing down. Truthfully, I expected to be a crying mess. I made it thgough the timeline without a tear, through the service at Ground Zero up until they tolled the bell marking the minute the second tower fell. As that bell rang, in my mind, my memory, I was at work, sitting in the engineers office surrounded by coworkers, sobbing as we watched in shock and disbelief as that magnificent tower crumbled to the ground. NOW I was weeping. I needed to do something - anything! - to get my mind off that scene otherwise I would be weeping the rest of the day. Muffins! I'll make blueberry muffins and pull myself together. Measuring, mixing, pouring into the tins...then in the oven. Back to the living room and Fox News just in time to catch Paul Simon's amazing acoustic performance of "Sound of Silence." Aaaaaand back came the tears. I wept for the unimaginable fear those trapped in the Towers must have gone through waiting for the rescue that never came, for those who made the choice to leap into the smoke-filled air to meet death on their own terms rather than the painful end that was thrust upon them in the moment of impact, for the 9-1-1 operators who tried to calm terrified, hysterical callers who were inside the Towers while remaining calrm themselves - even after the realization came that those inside would never make it out, for the firemen who geared up and marched off into those buildings and climbed floor after floor of stairs while the occupants rushed down them and away from the burning hell above, for the policemen helping the fleeing occupants of Tower One, Tower Two and the Pentagon by directing them where to go for medical attention and comforting those who were too distrught to move, for the dispatchers trying to direct the NYPD and FDNY amid the utter chaos that had enveloped the city and jammed radios, for the families watching helplessly as the events unfolded in New York City, in Washington DC and recieving those calls from loved ones telling them "I love you" and goodbye. The one image from that horrible day that I will never forget is the one of two ash-covered firemen carrying the lifeless body of FDNY's own Father Mychael Judge from the rubble. Father Judge had been there giving comfort to the victims, reassuring the firemen when the first tower fell, taking his life.

Ten years out from that Tuesday morning in September of 2001 and it's still painful to see, to hear the sounds from the news clips and to remember where I was at each stage. And that's a good thing. Once it stops hurting, it will be easier to forget. We can NEVER forget.