I was 3 on September 11th, 2001- the day that America was attacked. As any other three year old, any memory of that day is blurred and confused, as misty as the smoke that billowed around Ground Zero for months. I do remember, however, a few minutes of the diaster unfolding.

I was at preschool, and I remember my mom picking me up, crying. My dad was at work and was supposed to be in the South Tower, 85th floor, the very next day- the 12th. He was at the airport at the time, waiting to board a plane to NYC.

I watched the Towers fall and my mom frantically calling everybody she knew, many who worked in the Towers, a few of which she never heard from again. My dad as well, he lost friends in 9/11, including that of one of the men he was supposed to be with at the confrence on the 12th.

I didn’t crasp it until we visited New York when I was five. It was the second anniversery and I think all the rubble was gone but I remember staring into the big hole and not understanding anything other then something horrible had happened.

I wish I did.