On September 11, 2001 I sat on the couch with my infant daughter, rocking her back and forth, staring at the television in horror. Like every American, I was terrified. But, on that morning, I wasn’t only afraid for our nation. My fear was personal. I was afraid I had lost my husband.
My husband, Cash, traveled every week for work, and after years of this travel lifestyle I stopped writing down his flight numbers. So, on the morning of 9/11 all I knew was that Cash was leaving Boston on a United flight, home to Colorado. The first plane hit the Towers and I stood frozen. The second plane hit and I, like the rest of the world, began to realize we were under attack. The news reported that the planes were both United flights, heading westbound out of Boston, and I couldn’t breathe.
Diving for the phone, I dialed Cash’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer. I dialed again and again and again for seven minutes straight. It was the longest seven minutes of my life. When he finally answered I almost collapsed with relief. He was alive. Shocked, scared and stranded; but alive.
It took Cash another five days to make it home and when I saw him cross the threshold of our front door, it was one of the best moments of my life.
My 9/11 story had a happy ending, but for others that wasn’t the case; and today, especially, I pray for those whose loved ones didn’t come home. ~