I waited to do this post, because it was a busy week, and I would have rather done it late but to have done it well, then to have done it sloppily. Now that I am writing, though, I feel that there isn’t much to say. I wasn’t in New York when it happened, nor can I think of anyone I knew who was. I was a confused sixth grader in a deceptively small classroom–childhood makes everything seem bigger–watching it happen on TV. I remember 9/11.
And I wasn’t in Japan when it happened, though part of me wishes with all my heart that I was. I was reading and getting ready for bed. I recorded in my journal that I felt a lot of anxiety that night. When I awoke in the morning, I watched my heart breaking on TV, in slow motion, over and over again. I remember 3/11.