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.