We were young. To the point where we knew what had happened, but not quite old enough to realize the impact it would later have in our lives. I remember that day vaguely. The tension between the parents was pressing down on me as I weaved through the crowd of panicked adults. The gate guard was stricter than usual, stopping me to check my military ID card, instead of the typical passing nod. I kept walking. It was a straight shot from my elementary school to my house. Taking my time, I admired every house I passed on my left. From the intricate mailboxes to the slightly brown yards, I was taking it all in. “There were planes and there were buildings,” I mumbled as I drew near to my driveway. I carefully counted each stone I stepped upon on my way up to the door. I reached for the brass door knob and turned it ever so delicately. The look on my mother’s face when I walked through the front door was unforgettable. Her face reached new levels on pinks and puffy eyes. She embraced me tightly and continued to cry. “Is it the planes, momma?” I asked as the flow of her tears increased.

The military base grew silent over the next few weeks. My friends couldn’t come out to play after dinner. Children came in crying, not understanding why their daddies had to leave so suddenly. I could hear adults talking but not sure what they were saying. “It’s only going to be for a little while,” my mother told me as we pulled up to my dad’s house. With a deep sigh she slowly turned the key in the ignition after coming to a complete stop. She pulled out the key, while simultaneously unlocking the doors. One foot at a time, she rose from the driver’s side and made her way to the trunk. She pushed a button on her key chain and the trunk door popped open. Fighting back the tears she gave out hugs to me and my older brother, carried our bags to the front door, and said goodbye. The image of my mother walking away in her green printed uniform was the first of many memories I would go on to receive from that September day.