It was early in the morning, the sun not quite peeking through the cracks of my curtains, when I heard the worried murmuring of my parents, quiet but defined, outside my bedroom door. I blinked numerous times, to make sure I was not dreaming. I was a "big girl" now, they wouldn't like it if I awoke again to some nightmare. My socks had somehow thrown themselves off my feet overnight; I could never make them stay. I leaned forward to retrieve my missing sock, and suddenly, my bed made a wrenching squeak and my mother opened the door. I could see her face, but her expression was not of concern for me. Tears streamed down her cheeks and I tilted my head in enquiry. My mother bit her lip and cradled me in her arms, gentle but firm. The air seemed cold that morning, full of panic . . . a strange sadness I could not comprehend. I glanced at the television set far beyond my reach as a toddler. There I saw two tall buildings, falling. My mother wept.