Today I feel like an adult. Funny, I know. Eight years ago, I was living in Portland with Luke and his brother, Matt. I was getting ready for grad school when they turned on the television at the instant I turned on NPR. Audio and visual collided. I was holding a hair dryer and people were jumping out of the towers. It’s the JFK event for our generation. We all know what we were doing when we found out. A second part to all this is when we found out about someone. I was at my kitchen table when I heard about Jean, recently and randomly assigned to Flight 11, the first plane to hit the towers. I can still remember my Birkenstock toes in her backyard, all smiles and Longmeadow summer fun. Corsages pinned to our dresses for a winter formal. She was elegant, super-smart and kind. Maybe I’ll tell this story and the spider leg events of this webbed day on Betty or Lucy’s couch with white hair when I’m eighty-five. I’ll show the stack of Hussein’s money a former student’s father gave me after he stormed the Palace as a Naval officer. And, of course, I’ll talk of a happy fellow, a dear friend’s husband, who was killed in Iraq as a Naval Chief, involved in the important and risky job of IED location and disposal. Full circle, all from Flight 11.