I'd just fed my baby son, and put him in his wind-up swing. He gurgled contentedly as he swayed back and forth. At 9 months old, he was already sleeping through the night. I was inexpressibly thankful for that. His sister, a bright, active two year old, was playing in her room. It was quiet that morning. We lived in a 1950s ranch style house in Springfield Oregon. My husband and I decided we needed to get our family out of Phoenix, for a lot of reasons, and when he was presented with two attractive job offers in different states, we decided on Oregon. (the other choice was Minnesota) We moved to Oregon in November of 2000. Our son was born a month later. Everything felt so much better.
Then the phone rang. It was my brother. Asking if I was watching the TV. I wasn't. Turn it on now, he said. Any channel, makes no difference.
What followed was, I expect, the same as most everyone else experienced. Other than people who actually lived near the WTC, worked there, or had loved ones who did. After finally getting used to peace and quiet and calm, things I didn't have much back in Phoenix, the sensations I now felt were familiar. The numbness of seeing and hearing the horror going on somewhere else outside. The terror of thinking that my family could be next. And knowing that I might not be enough to protect the two small, helpless humans in my life. I turned off the TV and went outside. It was a warm day, the leaves hadn't changed yet. Nobody else seemed to be outside. No planes flying around, in and out of the airport in Eugene. A distant siren from a police car, and birds twittering, were the only sounds.
And I remembered, it was Dad's birthday. I hadn't called him yet.
So I did. He picked up the phone on the first ring. It was really awkward, wishing him a happy birthday. For a moment he seemed to forget that it was in fact his 61st birthday. And rambled a bit about how now this date will be remembered by everyone, like Pearl Harbor Day. And how awful it felt.
Yeah, I said. It does. But eventually you almost get used to it. That gave him pause; how would I know?
Because the Lockerbie bombing happened on my birthday. I had turned 27, was just sitting down for a birthday dinner when the news came. I instantly felt certain that it was an act of terrorism. But, I told him, it's still your birthday today. And for me at least, it always will be. The world was forever changed; there was simply no denying that. But it's still my dad's birthday.
And he thanked me for that.
