9/11 and September Depression 

What’s the hardest part of September? 

For me September comes with depression. The weather changes, traffic increases, school starts and 9/11. 

I remember September 11 2001, 15 years ago, reaching to school late. My class was located upstairs the principal’s office so I had to pass the teachers break room before I got to class. I glanced in as I did most times but something was different. There were some form six students glued to the TV and teachers all around.  I was late, why weren’t they in class? I glimpsed the screen. I swore it was a movie. Tears welled up. 

All I thought was about all the people who had been injured. I continued watching. Tower one collapsed. I was lost. 

I remember heading to class in tears. Hearing the flight number I vaguely remember worry about one of my cousins and their trip to NEw York and wondering if this was the number I heard. I scraped the floors of my mind to be certain. Fear ripped through me. I cried.  

Getting home that day I took a taxi in. As the car approached I saw my mom walking. Hunched, more like crawling. Her body begging to make it inside. As the car passed her and stopped I exited and faced her. She was about one house away. Her face was contorted with worry and fear. All my fears came back. I was so wrong 

It was my Aunty. My Aunty I had spoken to the Sunday before this Tuesday. The Aunty who promised to make me my graduation dress. The Aunty who joked about my wedding, pressed my hair out like no other, had a genuine soul, an unforgettable smile, red skin, brown hair and an infectious sprit. 

You see she worked in the tower. I know I said the tower but that’s because there is only one in my mind. That. One. Tower.  

I remember mom leaving with my grandma and uncles. I remember my family who laughs all the time silent. I remember seeing grandma age. No AGE OVERNIGHT. I remember my uncle, in New York, missing. No one could find him. He was searching for his wife. He was deep in ash and rubble. He was on every corner and block. He was a mad man. 

I remember they called. They were laughing again. It was after the service. There wasn’t anything found to put in a casket. They planted a tree. They renamed a street. They fondly remembered her. 

There was a knock. The door was answered. Dental records were used. She was truly gone. 

Silence. 

A sigh of relief when the plane lands safely in Trinidad. 

A year later or so. The phone rings. 

Mom is at her desk at work. The phone rings. She answers. It’s the Us Embassy. “Are you sitting down ma’am ” 

“We regret to inform you your sister Clara Hinds was one of the souls lost……….”

Silence. 

Every year I’m bombarded with post on 9/11. I don’t know if any of my family actually went to any services locally. I’ve been to ground zero. I’ve seen her name etched beautifully in the pool. I’ve struggled to make it through the exhibit. 

I’m left with conspiracy theories post from people who weren’t affected, documentaries, articles. 

I don’t watch TV in September. 

I walk on eggshells around my mom in September. 

I wish someone would wake me up when September ends. 

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