Nine-Eleven at Twenty

Following is the last few paragraphs form my journal entry on 9-11-2001:

I first heard the news of the attack on the World Trade Center towers while at work on the Dearborn Ranch house.  A kind of shockwave rippled through the entire construction crew.  Some of the crew huddled together, murmuring.  Others took to vocalizing distain as they bumped into other craftsmen.  After absorbing the news, I wandered around with conduit fittings in my hand, confused about whether I should be thinking about the attack or my job.

Then something vital stabbed into me: Helen, my daughter, lives in Manhattan, not that far from the Trade Center.  I dropped everything and whisked up to the construction office to use the phone.  The jobsite sits at center of stony ridges and swells of land that block cell signals.

I called home.  Busy.  I stomped my feet.  Twiddled.  Waited.  I imagined entire cities falling in my mind.  Buildings slumped to the street while spewing their dusty guts out in all directions.  I imagined fire in the sky.  I called again.  Uyen answered.  Helen had just called.  She was sobbing but otherwise fine.  Helen has not yet heard from Tung, one of her dearest friends who worked and lived very near the twin towers.

After arriving home this evening, I watched the news and fielded phone call after phone call—friends, family, and people I have not spoken to for a long time.  All of them were worried about Helen.

At present, two American cities still burn: Washington DC and New York City.  Military aircraft patrol the skies.  All commercial flights in the nation have been grounded.

Over and over Uyen and I watch videos of the towers collapsing amid rolling clouds of dust and smoke.  If there is anything worse than this, I can’t think of it right now.

—Mitchell Hegman