A Tuesday In September

I was running.  East on Huntington Avenue.  I was alone.  I don't know how far I ran, but I remember looking up.  The sky was blue.  Too blue.  And across that blue sky flew an F16.  Just an F16—nothing else.  I was confused.  I was scared.  I was angry.

It was only my second week of running.  I had joined the cross country team just one week prior, so whatever I was running that day, it was probably pretty slow.  Maybe we just ran to the freeway and back. That's most likely what it was.

I remember many things from September 11, 2001.  I remember when a classmate asked me what a pentagon was.  It being geometry class, I replied by telling him it was a five-sided figure.  I paid no attention to the fact that he probably asked what The Pentagon was.

I remember that Mr. Sprow had an old TV in his classroom that we remained glued to it for the duration of study hall, algebra 2, and chemistry.

The image I remember most, though, was that blue, blue sky.  I remember hearing an airplane, and, knowing that all commercial flights were grounded, I was scared.  When I saw that F16, I didn't know whether I should still be scared, or be comforted by its presence.

I was running.  East on Huntington Avenue.  Today, I still run, and that fighter jet against that blue sky will never leave my memory.