9/11, a day when every American shudders as they remember what happened thirteen years ago. Though I was only seven years old, that day is forever imprinted in my memory. This day each and every year causes me to stop and count my blessings. This day paints a bold stroke of red on my canvas.
I was in second grade. My mom worked as a teacher forty minutes away from our house and so I went to daycare and school out there too. I was sitting at my babysitter’s watching “Arthur” when the phone rang. ‘Liza, my dear babysitter, picked up the phone while I remained in a trance staring up at the TV. Suddenly, Arthur was gone and all I saw was a plane on the TV crashing into a building that stood next to a building that was on fire.
The thought to complain that the channel had changed didn’t even cross my mind. I still couldn’t understand what was happening. I looked behind to see my babysitter still on the phone, her gazed fixated on the screen. Little did I know these two towers were in New York City, or that thousands of people worked there, and were now fleeing the building or suffocating as the smoke grasped life from their lungs.
At school I remember every TV was turned to the news and the two burning towers were shown over and over again. My teacher tried to continue teaching, but she too was distracted by the images flashing across the screen.
As the week continued to unfold my seven-year-old brain began to grasp what happened I couldn’t believe people would do that. As the years continued on and the time came when my brother signed up for the army, and 9/11 touched my family again as he went overseas.
Today I give thanks to all those who fight for our country. I commemorate the work that has been done to remember 9/11. A day that will live on in infamy. A stroke of paint on my canvas. God bless America and the families that lost loved ones that day.