Eight years ago this morning, my mom was in her car on her way to work in Lower Manhattan (about 2 blocks from the World Trade Center). The cat had upchucked on the carpet that morning, so she was running about 15 minutes behind schedule. She was about 10 blocks away from the WTC when the first plane hit. Close enough for debris to land on her car. She turned around, headed back up to her apartment to grab the cat, and called me in San Francisco to let me know that she was OK as she was heading off of the island. She was one of the last people to cross before they closed all of the bridges and tunnels.
This morning, as I watched the footage from that morning in my bed, I thanked God for the who-knows-how-many-eth time that she got out safely. (And that Persian cats puke a lot -- in this instance probably saving my mom from being in a nearby building.) As my little eggplant-sized daughter delivered some soft morning jabs to my belly, I talked to her about how excited I am that she's going to be able to know her Grandma, who, aside from being the bravest person I have ever known (for so many reasons), is also one of the most fun.
My heart goes out to each and every person who lost someone near and dear to them on September 11, 2001. I realize that in this, as in so many things, I am so very blessed.
And so very thankful.