Thus started my day:
I bolted out of bed, mind swimming with things to do. Breakfasts and lunches to fix. Lists to make, toys to pick up. The massive dose of Benadryl I took last night left me groggy. I supplemented with tea accordingly.
My mornings start with the weather channel. Local on the 8s, my favorite 90 second broadcast, soothes me with its gliding colors and mondrian info boxes. Between Doppler radar segments, news burbles in the background, ignored. Newscasters are a sort of screen saver, colorful flashing things to fill the in the in-between-the 8s time. I assembled meals and tapped my fingers on bowls with compulsive delight with them in my background.
I noticed the words “Osama Bin Laden” and “killed” scrolling across the screen but truly did not think about it as I layered turkey on whole wheat and baked chicken broccoli pasta. A tiny “hmmm” registered, but not much more.
Breakfast prepared and lunches packed, I plopped on the couch to watch in earnest: Alabama is in crisis. Tornadoes devastate communities and kill over 300 people. Good Lord. Splintered homes look like disaster movie scenes. I wonder, “What is not right?—why this does not look real?” Hollywood movies have glitzy, dramatic lighting, incomparable to stark sun on raw shattered wood. Truth is ugly.
The Local on the Eights come and go. At last I noticed the announcement, “Osama Bin Laden is dead. ”
I recoiled. On 9/11. Egor and I arrived at AAA to pick up our tickets for a business trip to France. All eyes disbelieved the first plane crash into the towers. The enormity engulfed me. Numbly, I asked about our tickets, repeatedly. I could not think of anything else to do. In retrospect, I must have seemed incredibly callous, but truthfully, the shock rocked me into total disbelief. It took me hours to process. When it finally hit me, my insides liquefied. My skin tingled with bad-traffic maneuver adrenaline. I wept. I paced. I called my best friend and clung to her for the rest of the day.
Osama’s death was unexpected. As the details unfolded, people celebrated in the streets. A perverted forth of July. When I remember the twin towers and the lost, I can’t imagine celebration, unless the victims return to the life. Put away your fireworks and beer. Reflect and mourn.