I'm watching the US Open men's final. Carlos Alcaraz, a 19-year old Spanish player is the favorite and so far he's winning. I remember 9/11 and think to myself, "Carlos wasn't even born back then." 21 years later, he's playing in the same city where this tragedy took place, a horrific event that we will never forget. I'm sure we all vividly remember where we were, who we were with, how we felt. English is my first and only class that day. The teacher would always ask me to fill out her water bottle, "make sure the sink is clean", she would say...and I always did, except today. She's facing the tv when I walk in and I only see her back. I also hear her crying as the second plane crashes into the South Tower, and then, there's just an uncomfortable, unknown, unreal silence we all sink in. We also all know what happened next, and next, and next, and every time we remember, we rewatch it, we live it again, it seems more and more macabre. Everyone but me, really, everyone but me got picked up that day from school in a massive parent pick-up expedition that I thought would never end. I have to walk home because there's no buses and there's no hope. At that point, there's only an agonizing sadness we will always share forever.
