Seismic Shift

It’s cliché to say it, but there’s no more accurate way to describe it:

It feels like it just happened.

Not 18 years ago. Not nearly two decades.

Right now.

I was sitting at my desk at the magazine, answering emails and scheduling interviews. A coworker from the graphics department popped her head into my office.

“A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”

I paused. Then I said, “Wow, someone’s going to be in trouble.”

I thought it was a small plane. I thought it was an accident.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was back. This time, her expression was grave.

“Another plane hit the other tower.”

The world changed.

The next two days, there was no work. We were glued to the televisions, and as reports of the next two plane crashes arrived, we were silent, lost in our thoughts. First in New York, then in Washington, DC. And there we were, geographically between both locations.

I was wrestling with the notion of heading home when news came — a plane down in western PA.

I ran to my office and dialed my parents’ number. No answer.

Panic.

I listened to the news online at my desk. The plane hit about 70 miles from their house, but it was a place my mother frequented. Was it where she might have been?

The offices closed before 1 pm. No one could think let alone work. This. This overrode it all.

My mother eventually answered. The news had already reassured me — the plane hit a field, not any buildings.

My family was safe.

For the next weeks, the news was constant and reflective of a reality none of us were quite ready for. The tv was on most of the time, though I changed it so my daughter wouldn’t be subjected to the deluge of bad news.

So it was shocking when my aunt called. Did you see your cousin on tv?

I hadn’t.

Her husband was missing. She was on tv with his photo, trying to locate him. She was certain he was safe as he’d called her and told her he was heading out of the tower.

That was the last she’d heard from him. And she wouldn’t know for certain for many months that he had been in the tower when it collapsed.

Stories emerged from colleagues and friends. One PR rep sent a heartfelt, stark email describing the papers from the World Trade Center offices floating past his office a few blocks away. It was so poignant, I can remember the emotion of it to this day.

Describing how I felt, sitting a mile from a naval air base, when a plane flew low over our offices on September 12. How I kicked my chair back, ready to dive under the desk — planes had been grounded and we weren’t living in any familiar normal.

Everyone told their personal stories.

And we never forgot. No one could, even those who wanted to.

Not now. Not ever.

Peace.