September 11th, 2001 was the day the thought that I would never see my dad again entered my 5 year old mind. It was the day a group of terrorists hijacked two planes and crashed them into the Twin Towers and killed almost 3000 people. My dad worked on the 39th floor of the North Tower. At 8:46 a.m. the first hijacked plane crashed into the North Tower. Then, at 10:28 a.m. the tower completely collapsed, assuring that anyone remaining in the building was dead. I still did not know if my dad had made it out safely.

That same morning, until 8:50 a.m., I was sitting at home playing games with my mom and laughing. When the phone rang, my mom got up and answered it. Her expression changed from a playful smile to a serious and worried one. She then sent me to play in my room. As I walked away, I heard the television being turned on and the voice of a terrified news reporter. Even though I wanted to know what caused the wave of fear that swept over my mom, I continued walking up the stairs, leaving her sitting on the couch alone, staring at the T.V. screen and not moving.

When my two brothers and sister came home, the four of us went down and sat with my mom, who was still watching the news channel with the phone clutched tightly in her hand. She seemed impatient and anxious, but I didn’t know why. I tried to ask why she was acting this way, but she didn’t answer and my siblings just looked at me, making it obvious that I was the only one who didn’t know what had happened. I then turned my head to the television screen, which displayed nothing more than a tidal wave of smoke and an empty city. No one would tell me that there used to be two towers standing at the empty space where I now saw the smoke. No one would tell me that one of those towers was where my dad worked. And no one would tell me that we still had not heard from him since the attack occurred. So, I sat on the couch and waited.

At 4:00 p.m., my mom received the call that she was desperately waiting for. The phone rang in its usual merry tune of jingle bells, and she immediately hit the talk button, cutting off the music. The person on the other end of the line said something, and my mom suddenly became somewhat relaxed and relieved. When my mom hung up a few seconds later, she announced with a relief that it was my dad that was on the phone, and that he had gotten out safely. My siblings smiled for the first time in hours.

A little while later, my dad came home and gave us all a hug. He shared his story of how the building shook violently, and how he had seen firefighters carrying injured people down the stairs as hundreds of other workers tried to scramble out of the building that was about to collapse. He explained how he, along with the others who worked in either tower, ran as fast as he could and as far away from the smoke as possible, at the same time trying to find a way to reach us to let us know that he was safe. When he finally found a man who had signal in his cell phone and was allowing people to use it, he immediately called us. He then took the first train out of New York and came home.

September 11th, 2001 was a day when many wives lost their husbands, sisters who lost their brothers and children who lost their fathers or mothers. I could have been one of those children and I hadn’t even known it. Just the thought of not having my dad with me right now seems so unreal. I can only imagine what it must be like for those children who did lose their parents. For this reason, to me, 9/11 is a day of remembrance, grief, and unity.