Two Numbers
I am skipping down the hall; now a walk; now a skip; now a walk. My friends have been called out all day. A smile as big as Texas covers my face. I’ve been waiting, waiting all day; listening to the constant drone of my first grade teacher. What was she talking about? Nouns, yea, that’s right, something about nouns. I wasn’t listening. I don’t usually listen. I always ace everything. School is just a boring rerun for me. Things that I already know, was taught somewhere else, but I can’t quite remember when. I already know what a noun is and how to use it, have for as long as I can remember. I’ve been zoning out, carving a crayon into something remotely recognizable as a smiley face, with the tips of my nails. They’re messy now, but I don’t care. They’re always a little dirty. The cracked gray of ancient linoleum slides past my toes as I run the tips of my fingers across the painted cement of the wall. I love the fuzzy, tingly feel of friction on my skin. I’ve only been in school a few months, but it’s already a comforting tradition. I see the front office ahead. I was called out only minutes ago. I don’t know why I’ve been called out, but I don’t care. Maybe a doctor’s appointment. I don’t really care. Maybe a dentist’ cleaning. I don’t care. Maybe my mom just misses me, which isn’t likely. I don’t care. All I know is that I get to miss the rest of the school day. My heart leaps. There is my dad. I can tell by the color and cut of his hair, by the ironed crispness of his uniform. His back is turned to me as I walk in the door, but that wont last long. “Dad!” I shout, and he turns. My joyful greeting skids to a halt and I half-heartedly embrace him before pulling back. His face is held with an emotion that I am trying to understand. It can’t be fear. My dad is a soldier; a hero. He’s not afraid of anything. He isn’t. He can’t be. But he is. For the first time in my life, my dad is scared. Something is out of place. Something has happened. And something is very, very wrong. My father’s face, this is how I know. But I say nothing. He takes my hand and we walk to his old red car outside. He starts the car and we are driving home in silence. There are the bikes held in chains. There are the trees with the bleeding pulpy green leaves. Here is the pavement with cracks like enraged bulging veins. Here is the new crosswalk. Dad has stopped to let three figures hurry past. Wait! I know him! That is JK and his little brother. My young spirit rises. Here is something familiar, someone I know. There is there mother between them hurrying them along. Something is sparkling, twinkling in the little light that has penetrated the clouds, as it slides quickly off her cheek. And my mind realizes what it was. And my heart drops. And my stomach begins to fill with dread. It’s burning my insides. And I don’t know why, I don’t know why. I turn to my dad and force the question from my lips.
“Why is she crying?” A look of pain momentarily crosses his features before he answers me very simply and in the best way he can.
“Because her husband was one of the many that were just killed.”
I look down, trying to process this sudden shock of information. There is the heading of the spelling homework in my lap. There is my name at the top, written in the teacher’s handwriting. I’ve only scrawled one thing, two numbers. Two numbers in the top right-hand corner. Two numbers that I would never forget, because this date would change my life forever. 9/11 Two numbers. A day of an unprovoked massacre.
No comments:
Post a Comment