God forgive me, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of that barbaric day is this: “My Myrna was still alive.”
My office window gives me a great view of Wall Street. I didn’t see or hear the first plane hit. One of my co-workers grabbed me by the arm.
“Do you see the hole in the World Trade Center?” he asked me. “What happened?”
Nobody quite knew, but my co-workers began to gather at the windows. Some speculated that a small private plane must have gone off course and hit the tower.
“That’s too big a hole,” I said. “Looks to me like a terrorist attack.”
I don’t claim any special clairvoyance or knowledge. That was all Myrna’s. She had been predicting such an attack for years. My Filipino wife knew what was driving the attackers. She understood the complaint against modernity.
I called her at her office to ask if she had heard any news, and the second plane began its wide arc over the bay at the same time.
“Oh my God, honey!” I exclaimed. “That bastard is going to…”
And I was rendered speechless.
“What?” Myrna asked me again and again.
“I can’t talk now. I’ve got to hang up,” I told her.
My office is about three and a half miles from the WTC, and the plane appeared to be headed straight for us. My co-workers and I stood transfixed, watching the drama unfold in slow motion. In the last few seconds, that murdering son of a bitch of a pilot deliberately cocked the wings at an angle in an obvious attempt to impact as great an area of the building as possible.
The impact shattered my life. Witnessing murder on such a grand scale changed everything that I think and feel. My boss at that time was a young feminist woman I had been sparring with. I held her in my arms, I don’t know why. We comforted one another.
“Thank you,” she cried.
The rest, you all know. God bless the poor souls who suffered for hours in that burning hell. Their spirits shrieked in horror for weeks afterward. I could hear their voices in the wind. I could smell their bodies burning. I watched the fire slowly burn itself out.
Only three years later, on September 11, 2004, I slept with my brilliant wife for the last time. And, when I think of that terrible day four years past, I always think first: “My Myrna was still alive.”
Death, when will you call my name? God, please take good care of my baby. Please grant peace to the souls of those who suffered through that day in hell.
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