Image via Wikipedia

Eight years ago my morning routine was interrupted by an early morning telephone call from my employer. There had been some sort of attack in New York so our office was going to be closed. I turned on the television and my jaw dropped.

It looked like a scene from one of those seventies disaster movies that we had watched as kids, chaos surrounded the Twin Towers. I am not quite sure if I began watching before the attack on the second tower. I have seen the footage so many times it is hard to recall. But I remember being glued to the television, stunned by what I was seeing.

As I sat there transfixed by it all my mind was racing. I knew people who worked in the towers. I had clients in the towers. I was supposed to have been in Manhattan for business the week before. A dear friend and I had talked about getting a drink at Windows On The World, the restaurant/bar.

My trip was canceled, but his wasn’t. I spent a couple of frantic hours that morning trying to track him down and find out where he was. Later on I reached him and confirmed that he was back home in Los Angeles. It was only later that I found out that he had been working with Cantor Fitzgerald, 658 of their employees died that day.

While I tried to process what had happened my son played. He took his blocks and moved them around. Toy trucks were picked up and banged on the floor. Stuffed animals were hugged and drooled upon. He was only ten months old and completely unaware of the carnage that was taking place.

As he played I kept watching the news. On the television screen I saw people jump from the towers. I watched and wondered what sort of hell they were experiencing. I couldn’t imagine how many children were going to be orphaned and how many lives in general were going to be destroyed or altered that day.

It was so surreal to see him play while the bodies fell.

I remember picking that little guy up and staring into his eyes. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I stared at him and wondered who we were going to war with because there was no doubt that the attacks were an act of war.

And then I wondered what it would mean. Who had attacked us and why? What sort of response would there be? How long would we have to fight? Was there any chance that at 32 I would be involved? What kind of impact would this day have upon my son?

A million different questions ran through my head. Intellectually I knew that I wasn’t going to get any answers that day, but emotionally it was tough. Tough because I knew people in the city and hadn’t heard from all of them. Tough because I was concerned about my family and I was worried about how to protect them.

Many people lost far more than I did on that day. I won’t dishonor their loss by suggesting otherwise. During the time that has passed my son has grown and has learned about many things, some good and some bad. Thus far he hasn’t yet learned about what happened on that particular day, but that won’t last for much longer.

He is in third grade now. He reads beautifully and is quite cognizant of the world around him. I don’t know if they are going to discuss it in school, but some time soon he is going to ask me about what happened on September 11th and why.

I am not looking forward to that conversation because it will be one more sign of innocence lost, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.