8 years later

Eight years ago I was in Jamaica. I had just gotten into the van that would take me to school. Over the radio I heard a breaking news story. I still remember the exact words of the female announcer "A commercial plane has just crashed into the World Trade Center in New York." I remember thinking, "Wow how did the pilot let that happen?" My next thoughts flew directly to a woman I had just met that same year on my first trip to New York. Her name was Felicia and she was my mom's boss. She had a two year old son that she loved very much and she was the happiest person I had ever known. I thought "Wait. World Trade Center. That's where Felicia works." I said out loud to my driver "Did she just say the World Trade Center?" He replied with a quick and wondering "Yes. She did." I answered his questioning look with "My mom knows someone who works there.She is on the 102nd floor. Did the lady say where the plane hit?" "No she didn't."

I spent the rest of my day wondering what had happened. I didn't know anything until I got home in the afternoon. I expected to see a quick announcement about the crash, watch video of firefighters in helicopters dousing the flames and eventually extinguishing them, and then move on to cartoons.

I wish that were what happened. I still wish that today, now as I am writing this. But we all know that is not what happened. Instead I got home, turned on the TV to see the footage of the planes hitting the towers, the fireballs that followed, people running, people jumping and finally the towers falling. I sat on my couch and I cried. I cried and cried and cried. I never let my grandmother see because I was a big girl and big girls didn't cry. I went to the bathroom and took a bath just because I didn't want my grandmother to see me cry. Suddenly I had hope that the woman that I had known for the entire summer before had run out of the building like others had. Young and foolish hope but still it was hope. I hung on to that hope until later that night my mother called from New York to say "She didn't make it out." I still remember my mother's voice. It was weak and her tone was one I had heard only twice before and both times were the result of a stunning and unexpected death. I knew what she was thinking even though she wouldn't say it. Felicia was dead.Her body had not yet been recovered but we both knew that she was dead. Still at nine years old I clung on to the hope that she was still breathing under all that rubble.The anchors on the news however quickly quelled that hope. "Not many people are likely to have survived the collapse." I sat and cried again, this time not caring who saw. I sang along to 'Amazing Grace' and tried to believe that God could save her.

Two weeks later, all hope was gone. My mother called to say that Felicia had been found. Miraculously her body hadn't been too damaged and was identified quickly. I took this to be a miracle as many others could not have the same done for them. I then learned another aspect of the story. My mother had in fact been talking to Felicia on the phone when it happened. My mother heard the plane hitting the building. She heard the screams. But she also heard how Felicia was calm and level headed. She heard how Felicia, ever the organized one, tried to come up with an escape route, even though she had no idea what exactly was going on. My mother, though not at the scene, was in her own way a witness and a victim of 9/11.

All these years later and on this date, my mother occasionally talks about Felicia. Mostly about the son she left behind. He still remembers his mother and he knows what she looks like. I haven't seen him in far too long but I know that he is well and thriving like any other almost-ten-year-old.

If he were ever to read this I would want him to know, your mother loved you more than the world itself and she always talked about you. She is watching over you now and I am sure she still cares for you. I miss you and love you as well. Stay strong and be well.