I was in the house I lived in until I was nine years old -- a tiny wood ranch house with olive green carpet. My boyfriend Adam was there as well, as was my creative writing instructor, who for all practical purposes I call GFN.
All the lights were on in the house, and outside it looked like dusk. GFN had a son who was about two years old. He had a curls of bright blonde hair on his head and was waddling around the hallways wearing a sagging diaper. GFN was laughing as he followed him. I thought how odd it was that I was hanging out with my teacher.
We kept talking about the threat of terrorism, and how we were so glad nothing else was going to happen. But then, suddenly, we heard a rumble outside. GFN ordered us to get out of the house. We ran into the yard, which was enormous. A gravel road ran along one side of it. There were no other houses or buildings nearby, though we could see New York City across a body of water (despite that the house is in suburban Atlanta and sits next to a highway). The World Trade Center was on fire ("Again?" I said to Adam).
Suddenly, a plane flew low over our heads and began landing. It landed in our yard, right next to the house. Nothing else happened; the plane just sat there.
