Five minutes, any day. Spent writing—something anything not for anyone anything no edits no outlines no plans no correction, this is where it goes.enjoy.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


I was sitting on a rug on our wood floor.  I think I was with my brothers.  Or was I?  I can't recall.
I remember my parent got a phone call-- I can't even remember if it was my mom or my dad-- and I remember the urgency in his or her voice.  I remember being afraid.  I didn't know what was the matter.
I dropped what I was doing, ran to stand in front of my grown-up, reassured by the height and power of adulthood.  My parents could take care of anything.  My faith in them was formidable.
I remember watching as they turned on the TV, and I knew it was important, because my parents didn't watch TV.  We only turned on the TV to watch Sasha the Siamese Cat on PBS Kids, or Pokemon on 4Kids.  My parents didn't ever watch TV.
I watched the news with adult hands on my shoulders, watched as the tower smoked.   I didn't understand.  It was a movie to me.  No one was hurting, burning, dying.  It wasn't real.
I watched as the next tower was struck, watched as the news reporter didn't realize, watched as my mom or dad watched, horrified.
I watched, impassive, a child.  A movie.  It wasn't real.
I didn't realize people had died until the days following.  I didn't realize anything.
I was six then.
Now I'm sixteen.
It's so much more real today than it was then.

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