Eight years ago the sky was blue. The sun was bright. A touch of fall was in the air. All day long I looked up, trying to figure out...something, I'm not sure what. How the miraculous modes of transport that took us to visit grandparents had been turned into weapons. How my friends in the city were. How it had happened. At a playground I walked straight into some monkey bars, accidentally slamming my head . That night I kept looking up, too, at the silent skies. Because we're near the flight path from Kennedy to Europe, I often mistook those overnight flights for stars.My toddler son, though, knew, and liked to watch them as much as the fireflies. Air-pane! Air-pane! Not that night.
Eventually I started looking at what was right in front of me again. My tiny boy began going to preschool a few hours a week. We read books. We played. We went apple picking, and he said his first long sentence on the way home.
And when we went to visit his grandparents at Christmas, my heart soared when the flight took off.
Photograph: 9/11 Memorial, Sherwood Island State Park, Connecticut. Taken by ST, September 2008. All rights reserved.