Eight years ago I was one week into a clerkship at the Court of Federal Claims — across McPherson Square from the White House. I didn’t get back to work for a week because the White House security perimeter often included that building.
Eight years ago I couldn’t reach my husband on my cell phone to let him know I was crawling through backstreets of DC trying to reach a bridge we could cross to get out of the city. They’d shut down the cell network to prevent bomb detonations. Know that now, didn’t think of it then.
Eight years ago, a friend who worked for the Vice-President’s wife tore across McPherson Square because they were told to leave…NOW.
Eight years ago, a friend who was chief of staff for a Congressman walked home because they shut down the metro system.
Eight years ago, another friend barely made it out of the World Trade Center and that experience inched him closer to Christ.
Eight years ago, my husband, 11 month old and I sat in a neighbor’s townhouse watching the coverage until he and his wife got called to the Pentagon to do grief counseling. He is a Anglican priest in the Air Force.
Eight years ago, Eric and I walked our daughter and dog to the bridge in our neighborhood that crossed 395 and watched the Pentagon burn.
I’ll never forget the impact of that day.