No one really talked about it much on campus today. My eighteen-year-old students? They were pretty young when the towers fell. They remember that tragic day the way I remember Kennedy's assassination: it was something that made grown-ups cry.
This afternoon I heard the man in the next office talking to his officemate: back in 2001, he was working in Big City Like No Other, close enough to smell the burning and be part of the panic. I saw remembrances on twitter and facebook; I felt that twinge every time I looked at the date. I know two students who lost parents on that Tuesday in September.
I posted on twitter a link to my own poem about teaching the day after September 11. A friend and former student from Little Green responded by writing up a memory that will not fade: where on campus she was when she heard the news. Later in the day, I read a piece by a friend and colleague from my days at Snowstorm University, who writes about losing her daughter.
This evening, a storm is sweeping through the region. I am sitting alone in my living room, just watching out the window, listening to the rumbling and crashing of thunder, watching the jolts of light that break apart the whole sky.