Melissa Senate

A few days ago, I drove past a procession of huge dump trucks. There must have been ten of them in a row. The sight of those trucks immediately brought me back to 9/11, and I had to pull over in tears and take deep breaths. 

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in my Manhattan apartment, watching the Today show. In real time, I saw the second plane aimed for the tower, the news anchors having no idea what to say, what to report. I watched in horror as it hit. A few minutes later, my friend Adam came over (he lived across the street). We walked around our neighborhood in a daze, then decided to see if we could give blood at the nearest hospital.  That night, we were still outside, unsure what to do with ourselves, how to make sense of what had happened, how to even discuss it. In a life-is-way-too-short moment, Adam and I kissed for the first time that night. Two months later, our son was conceived. Two years later, we married in our beloved city, in Central Park, at the Bethesda Fountain, my favorite spot in the park, with our son in his tiny tuxedo. 

The marriage didn't last. But when I saw that procession of dump trucks the other day, way up here in Maine where I now live, I called Adam and told him about it, how it reminded me of us watching those huge trucks thundering down Second Avenue, one after another, the streets otherwise empty of traffic, the two of us just standing there and staring, unable to think, process, and so we just kissed. He was my friend then, and he's my friend now.  

On my favorite moms' message board, there's a discussion about when and how to tell your young child about 9/11. Some posted that 6 and under is too young; some thought four was old enough to be told about it in bad guy/good guy terms. Max is 6, and I think he's too young to be told about 9/11, in any terms. The day will come when he does learn about it. I'm comforted by the thought that Max will also learn that amid all that terror and tragic loss, his parents held hands for the first time.