By the time I woke up that day, still groggy, uncomprehending an early morning email flood from friends on the US continent, trying to figure out some strange picture of planes crashing everywhere, by that time so many were dead.
Turning on my television, I saw and understood, watched those who jumped from the towers, still jumping on a news loop, a horrible repetition of one plane exploding, and the tower collapses too. I saw the enormous dust cloud, an insidious choking fog that would kill, we find out, many more for years to come. I listened to the slowly developing of the story of the men who had highjacked the planes.
I couldn’t fathom myself dying on one of those planes, the moment of impact, couldn’t see myself looking down and then jumping, choosing a better way to die than being burned to death.
I saw all of this horror, listened to the piecing together of information about these men who’d highjacked the planes, and felt an enormous growing hatred.
I’m ashamed to say that was the only thing I felt that day. Since that time, however, always looking at my Facebook profile photo of me standing at the Ground Zero memorial, sorrow has managed to replace, slowly, that hatred.
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Today’s word is
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