I am the love child of the Bush Administration and Osama Bin Laden.
Like my grandmother remembers December 7th, 1941,
And my mother remembers November 22nd, 1963,
I remember where I was on the morning of September 11th, 2001.

I was in second grade at the Naval Academy Primary School.
Most of our parents worked at the United States Naval Academy,
Or at the Pentagon.
My teacher, Mrs. Regier—a woman famous for teaching math with shaving cream,
history with a piano—herded us outside.
Extra recess!
"The weather is too lovely today, not to play outside" she said,
Warm breeze rustling her wiry, long blond hair.
The sky did look especially blue.

Disheveled mothers streamed in and out of school
Throughout the morning,
Murmuring to teachers at they collected their children,
I can't get through to my husband.

My mom arrived.
Gravity seemed to cling to her face.
She's not normally a serious person,
And so I looked, to no avail,
For the comforting crook of her tooth,
Which she bares only
When she smiles.

My mom, sister and I walk across the parking lot,
Which seems to warble in the afternoon heat.
"There are bad people in the world,
Terrorists,
Who do bad things to hurt people," Mom says.
"Weren't we terrorists in France last year," my ten-year-old sister asks.
I freeze when she says this, ready to accept responsibility
For whatever it was that happened.
I wonder how I could have possibly been involved.
"No sweetie," my mom says, "we were tourists."