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This has hit me hard, and I can't watch anymore on TV. Haven't watched today; I'm saturated. Filled. Teary whenever I see it/hear about it. Need some distance, so I'm not watching.
Helicopters:
Before the attack, helicopters at night meant the cops were chasing criminals. Post-attack, with nothing else in the air, I'm comforted by the sound, thinking the night patrol is doing its thing, keeping us safe from terrorists while we sleep.
Planes:
Before the attack - We're not far from the final approach for the airport quite some miles away, so planes are a constant.
The day of the attack - no planes flying, nothing in the sky. Strange, weird oddness. Not-right, eerie.
Post-attack - When the planes started flying again, the first one I heard, a co-worker looked up at the ceiling, looking a little nervous for a microsecond, and then we both laughed, relieved. She commented that it was weird that planes had suddenly become an object of terror. First one I saw, after, seemed huge and low in the sky, too close. I wasn't scared, but I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't beat a little more quickly for a few seconds. I like hearing them now, for reasons that look weird in print. I guess I like hearing the sound of America getting on with it, not being afraid. Going forward.
Heard "God Bless America" this morning, and it seemed weird and surreal. Heard it on the radio this evening, and I turned the channel. I don't want to hear it again.
We're having a bizarrely beautiful early fall, and when I think to myself what a gorgeous day it is, I suddenly remember that my life has changed, that the world has changed. There's a hard little nugget of sadness inside, and I don't know if it will ever go away.
Helicopters:
Before the attack, helicopters at night meant the cops were chasing criminals. Post-attack, with nothing else in the air, I'm comforted by the sound, thinking the night patrol is doing its thing, keeping us safe from terrorists while we sleep.
Planes:
Before the attack - We're not far from the final approach for the airport quite some miles away, so planes are a constant.
The day of the attack - no planes flying, nothing in the sky. Strange, weird oddness. Not-right, eerie.
Post-attack - When the planes started flying again, the first one I heard, a co-worker looked up at the ceiling, looking a little nervous for a microsecond, and then we both laughed, relieved. She commented that it was weird that planes had suddenly become an object of terror. First one I saw, after, seemed huge and low in the sky, too close. I wasn't scared, but I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't beat a little more quickly for a few seconds. I like hearing them now, for reasons that look weird in print. I guess I like hearing the sound of America getting on with it, not being afraid. Going forward.
Heard "God Bless America" this morning, and it seemed weird and surreal. Heard it on the radio this evening, and I turned the channel. I don't want to hear it again.
We're having a bizarrely beautiful early fall, and when I think to myself what a gorgeous day it is, I suddenly remember that my life has changed, that the world has changed. There's a hard little nugget of sadness inside, and I don't know if it will ever go away.
