It was September. 2001. I was glad I was missing a day of first grade, but I wasn’t glad that it was for a funeral. Six year olds don’t know a thing about death. It was just, “Great Grandpop is sleeping.”
I didn’t feel good the next morning. It was close to a tummy ache that even pop star Barbie had trouble fixing. Six year olds can’t comprehend.
“Why is Daddy yelling on the phone?”
“It’s nothing, Pumpkin.”
The overhead speaker is loud but calm. “We’re sorry, folks. We don’t know who is controlling our airspace. We have to evacuate the plane.”
“What’s going on, Mommy?”
“Stay close to me.”
Everyone was gathered around the TVs in the waiting area. One really tall building. On fire. People crying. Panicked.
Six year olds don’t know a thing about death, but we understood.
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