In Denver, it was 6:46 a.m. when the first plane hit. I was out of the shower listening to my favorite morning show, Dom and Jane. They usually had the Today Show on in their studio and suddenly, they were talking about how a plane inexplicably just flew into one of the buildings.
17 minutes later, the second plane hit. I continued to listen in shock, not turning on the TV for fear I would miss my bus to the office.
Everyone on that bus was talking about what happened. Those who hadn't heard were filled in. Those who had watched news channels that morning relayed the horrific scene in New York.
As soon as I got into the office, I pulled up Mapquest to get a picture of the buildings. The buildings imploded shortly after.
I called my boss, who just the night before had supper with me because he was leaving town to go be with his family. I cooked for him when he had no one else to eat with. I caught him on his cell phone, cruising oblivious down the highway toward Phoenix.
"Turn on your radio, find a talk radio station." We got cut off.
The head honchos at the office determined that we were not fully safe in our office building, being so near one more than 50 stories high. We didn't yet know whether all skyscrapers in the country were being targeted or if the damage was yet complete.
They told us to go home.
So, we did.
Most of us spent the next eleventy hours glued to the television, watching replays of what happened that morning. The planes, the smoke, the fires, the ash, the horror.
This morning, I woke up and looked around my neighborhood. There are flags flying today where there were none yesterday.
I thought about the women who were pregnant at that time, whose babies lost their fathers that day. They'd be in first, maybe second grade this fall.
It was incomprehensible then. And no less so now.