Few Words

What I remember most eight years ago upon this day  was the inability to speak, to put more than just a few words together. As if my brain and mouth had lost a connection somewhere in the confusion and anxieties of the day. What always comes immediately to mind are the four words I spoke to my then boss, Dr. Knudtson. Four words I never imagined saying.

"They hit the Pentagon."

Silence followed.

Patients had been checked in, phones were relatively quiet that morning when Deah's mother called to tell us that a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers in New York. Deah turned the small black and white on in the file room. We watched, me with my coffee in hand.

When the second plane hit we both stood a little straighter, strained our eyes, looked slowly over at one another. We knew what we had just seen, but our mouths failed to speak it. To speak it would mean recognition. To speak it would mean that all hell was about to break loose. To speak it would mean that our lives would be changing forever.

I don't remember which one of us finally asked, "That was another plane, wasn't it?" I don't really recall how the file room became crowded with voices on the edge of hysteria, questioning us, the television. Phone calls were made. Patients began cancelling appointments.

But, I remember walking back to the operatory room, because Dr. was still working, and holding onto the doorway with both hands to steady myself to say those words, "They hit the Pentagon."

The rest of the day is in bits and pieces. Crying as the towers fell, whispering "All those people..."Pulling into my drive, but not remembering the actual drive home, to see our flag waving bright against the blue but empty sky. The boys had raised it and were now waiting for me, their eyes wide with questions and fear. The youngest one crying, "Is this it? Is this the end of the world?"

After I calmed them with tight hugs and the only reassurance I could speak, "It will be okay," I sat on the edge of my bed and realized how quiet it was. No planes. We live just a mile from the airport and while we have become used to sound of jet engines, visitors often ask if the planes bother us. What planes?

Silence. I called Brad to tell him about the boys, the flag, the silent airport, but when he answered the phone I couldn't speak. I just cried. He listened on the other end, himself with no words, but I knew he was there and that was enough.

That night, when we went to bed we held hands in the dark and I tried to pray, but those familiar words wouldn't come, those engrained verses were lost and the tears slid silently down my cheeks in the dark. All I could do was listen to the silence and hope that tomorrow the words would return.