It was the morning of September 11, 2001. I woke up for school like I did on any other Tuesday, and went out of my room into the dining room. My mom had poured a bowl of cereal for me to eat before I got ready for school. My little sister Abby sat in her high chair, messily eating her own breakfast.

Mom was usually pretty active in the mornings. She was always cleaning, making breakfast, or helping me get ready for school. But this morning was different, because she was standing in the living room, staring at the TV. I looked to see what she was watching. A plane had flown into a tall building. I remember being shocked, but I was only 7 years old and I didn’t realize what had really happened.

I remember seeing the orange flames. The acrid, black smoke coiled from the tower like a snake getting ready to strike its prey. The camera was kept on the flames constantly. As I brushed my teeth after breakfast, I walked into the living room to watch the TV again. A second plane had flown into another tower. Fear struck my heart like an arrow.

My mom drove me to school. She was quiet during the short drive. She was crying a bit, and I wondered what was making her so sad. As I walked through the hallways to my classroom, me and several other students noticed that teachers were in the teachers lounge watching TV. They were still watching the haunting images of the burning buildings. I continued walking past the teachers lounge, trying not to think about what was going on in New York.

I ignored the rumors, thinking they weren’t true. But deep inside, I felt something. It was fear, mingled with confusion. Who, in their right mind, would fly a plane into a skyscraper? It just didn’t make sense to me.

I got to the classroom and sat down in my seat. Before class started, my teacher Mrs. Dahling told us that something had happened. She explained that planes had run into several buildings in New York and Washington DC, and that another had just hit the Pentagon. They thought that terrorists might have done it. Many people had died, and no one knew exactly who had been involved in the attack. Everyone in the class already knew this because of the elementary school grapevine, but we let her talk anyway.

I was a little surprised to hear about a terrorist attack, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard from the other kids. Surely no human being was capable of running a plane into a building, with the intent of killing people. To my young mind, such a thing seemed out of the realm of possibility. But even though I didn’t think it was a terrorist attack, there was still a trace of doubt in my mind. What if they ran a plane into our school next? It didn’t occur to me that terrorists wouldn’t target a small town just outside of Cincinnati, Ohio.

The school day went on as usual. My mom picked me up from school and took me home. She sat with my older sister Jessi, who was in high school. They watched the footage of the attacks over and over. Mom told me of all the attacks that had happened that day. I was still afraid that the bad people might run another plane into an area near us.

From that day on, I knew I could not and would not forget the events of that day. The fear of the terrorists is long gone, but the pain and the sorrow still cloud my mind every year on September 11.