Something I learned on 9/11

Tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of the destruction of the Twin Towers.
I still really can't bring myself to write much on what went on internally that day. There are still just too many emotions for me to analyze. The facts are... my mother was in One World Trade, which was the North tower. It was the first building that was hit and the second building to fall.
I can explain step by step where I was and what I was doing when it happened. I can tell you how I tried to calm my grandmother down, when all she kept saying was, "my daughter, my daughter." I can tell you that my sister and I could only comfort each other by phone because she was in Connecticut, at college. I can also tell you that I didn't find out my mother was safe until about 11 a.m.

My experiences on that day, for the most part, are similar to others who were relieved to find out their loved ones were safe. My story isn't really that different from hundreds of others who had to walk the streets of downtown in a daze. Numb. Simply in awe of what was happening all around them.
I remember clearly the people I worried about, the people I wanted to hug and kiss. The ones who meant the absolute world to me. Family members who lived out of state. Old friends. Even co-workers.
I also remember clearly who was thinking of me. Family. Friends. Even old boyfriends called, in the middle of the chaos, to check if I was safe.

But when I'm alone and I think back to a clearly defining moment, it's always the same one. It's the moment I felt terror and comfort at the very same time.
It's the moment I understood, on an emotional level, what unconditional, unselfish love was.
The obvious contrast between my mothers love for me and my fathers.

Earlier in the day, my father was able to reach me at my grandmothers house. He was crying and giving thanks to god that I was safe. There were people in the background cheering because he'd found me. He told me he didn't know what he would have done if I'd been hurt or killed. He'd even called the Red Cross for information and promised god that if I was okay, he would shave his head. This is a very Puerto Rican thing... making "Promesas" to god. It's a promise to sacrifice yourself in some way in order to receive a blessing or miracle of some kind. Often people promise to wear all white for a year or all black, women promise not to cut their hair for a certain period, things like that.
Now, I won't say my father was not being honest with me. I think he was being as honest as he knows how to be. At the time, he really did believe he could lose me.
That is why I tried to ignore the fact that I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him. I tried to ignore that he didn't know where I worked, so he had no idea whether I was in the area of the Trade Center before he went nuts worrying. I tried to ignore that if he had my grandmothers number, which he clearly did because that's how he was able to reach me, then why would he call the Red Cross? And... I really really tried to ignore that he didn't even have a full head of hair to shave. That last part still makes me laugh.
I mean, he hadn't had a full head of hair in decades.
His wife and daughters had been on his case for years to shave the rest of it.
Ahhh, there's humor in any situation if you look for it...
So, this man of god who reads the Bible daily, attends church several times a week and is now a minister who performs weddings, literally thought promising to shave his head was a good deal to make with his creator for my safe return. I'm grateful I was kept safe in spite of that vow.

Now for the contrast...
That afternoon, when I finally fell into my mothers arms, she held me tight and soothed me. She was the one in the building when it was hit but she held me and comforted me. She repeated over and over that she was safe, that she loved me and everything would be okay.
We made it back to her house hours later and made what calls we could to let everyone know how things were going. We ate together. We watched the news. We slept head to foot in her bed.
In the middle of the night we were woken up by low flying planes. Not just any kind of plane but fighter planes. Imagine, jets flying over Queens. We both sat straight up, not knowing whether they were our planes or if we were being attacked again. In one split second we grabbed hands and looked directly into the others eyes. We knew that if it was our time, we were not alone. No drama. No promises. Nothing to prove. It was just us and there was nothing that needed to be said. We were together.
Fear of the unknown then... peace.

And, that was the moment...
I knew the feeling of unconditional, unselfish love.