Memories of 9/11, 22 years ago.

I was sitting in a cafe, eating breakfast when I saw the first plane strike. My godfather, Damian, was sitting across from me sipping on coffee and when it hit, we both had our eyes riveted on the television screen with the news running on it. I had hopes of seeing my family, my two little ones and my mother, and had just finished traveling from Dallas, to Ft. Smith the night before. I was tired, tired beyond words can even express.

Panic rose in my chest, dried up my throat and filled my eyes with tears when I looked to my godfather, trying to find words to speak. The first thing I said after that sight? "I need to check on my babies...let's go." I had half a meal in front of me still, and panic shut down my hunger entirely. We paid for our meal and rushed out the door, heading in a beeline for my mothers place on the other side of the city. She and my babies were fine, but I was scared to my core.

I lived with that ghost of fear haunting me for two decades since, worrying for the families that lost their loved ones on those flights and in those buildings. Worrying for how our country can come together after that attack. Worrying that we'll be in a forever-war with another country as a result of that very day.