Remembering the date.

The eleventh of September, seventeen years ago, I was awakened in my parents’ house, by the telephone ringing. It was my girlfriend in Tijuana, calling to share her shock and grief with me.

They have attacked your country, she said, in Spanish.

My parents were on the road, in the midst of vacation in Oregon. They stopped in a store and heard, there, what had happened in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania. Or maybe they only heard about New York.

I was house-sitting their home while they were away. Like almost everyone else in the western world, I spent the day glued to television, watching twin towers crumbling over and over and over again.

Until I finally wised up and shut the damn box off.

For a few minutes.

Weeks later my mother told me that the owner of the store ordered his employees to turn off the television.

No one was buying any souvenirs.