Seventeen years ago I was living in Port Orchard, Washington. My wife was working for Continental Airlines at the time and I was working in downtown Seattle.
The morning of the 11th she called me asking if the everything was OK. I had just gotten up, so I had no idea what was happening. When I turned on the TV and saw the planes heading for the towers I thought it was some kind of trick, since the plane didn’t come out the other side of the tower.
I soon learned the truth.
They told all the planes in the air to land as soon as possible. My wife’s plane continued to its destination and was the last plane to land. After that, the skies were clear.
I got in touch with an old friend of mine who was working on the TV transmitters in the towers. He was on the way when he was called into the office to pick up some tools. A few minutes after he arrived at work, his world changed dramatically. Several of his friends died when the towers collapsed.
After seventeen years, he still has not recovered from the “why was I saved” feeling of dread.
The one bright spot that day was the birth of my grandson, Mac, who turned seventeen yesterday.
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