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Sunday, September 11, 2011


I don't remember where I was when JFK was assassinated. My mother was still in high school. I wasn't even the proverbial gleam at that point.

But I remember where I was ten years ago.

I took my daughter to a new playground. She was three. Bob and Tom had just announced on the radio that a plane had hit one of the towers. I imagined a small plane, a private one, that got off course, maybe the pilot had a heart attack.  I watched my daughter run across the wood chips with a sinking feeling. That instinctual feeling the pulls coldly when the phone rings late at night. That feeling when you can't find your kid in the toy store.

When I got to work, everyone was gathered around a TV. Together, we watched the second tower collapse. A desperate sensation of loss opened inside me. I didn't know anyone that lived in New York. I didn't know any of the people that perished in that moment of live TV. Still, I wanted to cry.

2,977 people died.

Our ignorance can feel so bottomless.

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