I feel fuzzy today. It's a gray quiet day outside and online I've been reading 9/11 postings that bring me back over and over again.
It was so quiet.
I had walked onto campus and was sitting and reading on the steps of the speech team office, which was housed in the grad student wing of old barrack-style dorms that had been converted into the Communication Department's building.
It was beautiful out.
Matt, the grad student who had the office next to ours, walked up and told me. I went upstairs and reloaded CNN.com over and over, until the towers collapsed.
I went back downstairs and sat on the steps. I didn't know what to do.
My coach walked up and I said "Did you hear?"
I suppose I will always be a part of his memory of that day.
We sat and listened to the radio. For weeks, everything I heard seemed like it had the same scratchy static white noise wrapped around it.
I tried calling my aunt who worked near the towers, my sister who drove past the Pentagon every day. I tried calling my best friend.
I don't remember when I finally got a hold of everyone or what we said, except that my sister had seen the smoke, had just left her house. That everyone was alive.
The next weeks were so quiet. Fighter planes zipped over our heads and the world hung awkwardly off its axis. My friend M and I sat and watched Bill O'Reilly because she was writing about him and he started talking about Bloomington, Indiana, "that hotbed of terrorism."
Strangely, and a bit sadly, it was a return to at least a small part of normalcy, where we yelled at conservative talking heads instead of just crying.