Come and look at this, Michael said. He was sitting, ludicrously, on the children's little, yellow stepstool and spoon-feeding Sophie her breakfast. The television was on. I stood three paces away from him, baby Oliver in my arms, and watched. My hands rose of their own accord to my mouth. Everything seemed still. The towers were tiny on the television, the smoke like a child's art project: black painted circles, blue sky. Peter Jenning's face was taut, his own anxiety held tight under his skin. I stood there on the black and white floor, still, for what seemed like hours. I didn't cry, then, only thought my city, my city.
I agonized over whether to put Sophie on her school bus. Would they come to Los Angeles, the planes? Shouldn't we all be together? When the bus pulled up, Dot, the bus-driver seemed oblivious to what was happening. Her large, dark face beamed at Sophie and she swung the doors open. I put Sophie on and watched the bus pull away, regretful. An hour later, I'd go after it, Henry and Oliver in tow, and take Sophie from school, apologetic.
Michael left work for his first day with Wolfgang Puck. It seemed silly, his anxiety, a new job.
Later, still transfixed, I saw the tower fall, even before Peter Jennings, who was looking at a different monitor. When he glanced up, I told him, Look, It's fallen. The tower has fallen.
** In her inimitable style, Ms. Moon wrote words that, for me, reflect perfectly my own feelings about this day. Go here, but only if you're prepared for the unorthodox.