Seventeen years ago, the weather was just like this.

I taught on Tuesdays, that term.

I usually listened to the news in the car, not before leaving my third-floor walkup.

My neighbor caught me in the hallway to tell me, as I was leaving. I didn’t understand. I thought, small plane.

When I tuned in to the news, the second tower had already come down.

Noah Adams’s voice broke. (Was it Noah? One of the NPR reporters.)

I called to find out if LRU was carrying on as normal. They were.

I carried on. I taught. Everyone was so shocked that all we could do was continue to do the things we always did, like shattered glass hanging together for a few seconds before it starts to fall out of a window.

I remember the morning. I don’t remember the end of the day.

For this fall’s freshmen, the world has always been this way. This is not their before and after.