The sun still rose. It was one of those days when it felt like an accomplishment to even wake up. September 11, 2001 had finally come. I thought maybe my mourning would finally be complete.
I turned on the television and began my sunrise routine. There was a breaking news update: a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center buildings. It was 6 a.m. where I was, but 9 a.m. in New York. People were already at work there; at home, I was shouting for my mom. I was grateful to have a place of refuge after the divorce; even if it meant sleeping on the couch. We stared at the TV together, in desperate disbelief. My younger brother walked into the room – he had never seen a plane crash into a building either. So much death. I wondered how many people were on that plane, on those floors. I had to get ready; I still had class at 8:00.