Sarah was already at work. She had a morning shift that semester, and could usually be found at the Galley cutting raw chicken into bite-sized bits. You think you hate dealing with raw chicken. Try dicing pounds and pounds and pounds of it. Every day. Sarah wasn't always in the best of moods when she came back to our dorm room, but I understood.

Nevertheless, I quickly grew accustomed to my quiet mornings—the days before coffee, you know (yes, such a time did exist)—and had a drowsy routine. My earliest class on schedule was after noon, and I was fetching in my innate laziness. Every morning was the same. I'd climb down from the cedar loft that my father crafted with his own hands and yawn on a stretch upon reaching the bottom.

Then I would grab the cordless phone and call Mom at work. She was expecting my call that day, and when I heard her sunshiny voice, I settled myself on a plush bit of blankets eager for our conversation to begin. "Did you just wake up?" She demanded a little tersely. A bit mopey, I admitted that I had, and she rushed to say, "Turn on your TV."

"Wh—?" But the line was dead. My body radiated with a contagious urgency and I remember so crisply looking at the phone clenched in my hand. I reached for the remote with my other and watched in horror as the second plane crashed into the south tower. The curtains were still closed, and streaks of bright morning light were peaking at me from beneath the borders. I didn't want to open the curtains. I didn't feel much like considering the world beyond our little room just then.

Sarah came home at one point, rattling me as I heard her at the door. Everything seemed so fragile then, and nothing seemed safe. She was pale. Her eyes seemed vacant. Mechanically she sat next to me and we watched the unfolding story in silence. After awhile, she began rocking and murmured, "My mom is traveling today." We spent the day in front of that TV, afraid to wander very far.

I remember nearly every detail of that day from start to finish. Funny, really, when I remember none of the day just before or just after. Here we stand, six years later. Nick finds a documentary on Flight 93, and he is watching it when I get home from work. Helpless but to watch, hot tears bathe my face and drip from my chin. A loving parent refers to the passengers on that flight as the first army against this war on terror.

Sarah's mom was okay. Classes resumed. Images of Ground Zero lessened across the airways. Discussions stopped. We all did our best to forget. We liked life much better in our naivety, the days when evil couldn't touch us. But try as hard as we might, it is impossible to forget.