Eight years ago today, I was sitting in an office in Kendall Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts, planning for a conference I was set to attend the next day in Washington, DC.
Someone said something about a plane hitting a building in New York. Â My first thought was, “not likely,” and my second was, “if it did happen, it had to have been a small aircraft.”
Shows what I know.
I don’t remember how it was that the urgency of that morning swept through our open-plan office, or why I ended up standing in front of the tiny television in our break room, staring at a commercial jet jammed into one of the Twin Towers, and then – the other. Â I do remember the receptionist asking me to pick up the phone: a friend, knowing I lived in Boston and traveled a great deal, had called me from Louisiana to make sure I was safe. Â I numbly told her I was.
A few hours later, we were told we could go home, encouraged to hug our families. Â I fled out into the incongruous fall sunshine, darted towards the apartment that was only recently “home” to me.
My mother came over. Â I know we hugged. Â We must have cried.
I used to work for a company that had its headquarters across the street from those tall, tall towers. Â I had left on good terms a few months prior, and my boss and colleagues treated me to champagne at Windows on the World. Â That spring day, the fog was thick outside the windows and the famous view replaced by a vista of flat gray. Â Inside the bar, white uniforms had moved among dark business suits. Â Fleet Week. Â We had laughed. Â Only in New York.
I spent a lot of time that day trying to track down former colleagues, friends. Â One had been driving in to work, saw the first plane. Â She had called human resources from her car, told HR to get everyone out of the building as the unthinkable unrolled in front of her. Â When I spoke to her, her voice was a thread. Â My former boss, the woman who had treated me to champagne that spring day, had walked 50 flights of stairs to get to ground level. Â I don’t know how she actually got home. Â Those 50 flights were only the beginning.
John drove up, and we sat on the front steps, drinking and talking. Â Confusion and helplessness seemed to be all we were capable of. Â The luxury of the everyday was going to be a while coming.