The child had been shopping that morning, brilliant blue sky hanging overhead. His mother had bought herself a new pink dress. The
child’s reaction was typical for an eight year old.

“Yuk.”

They finished at a coffee bar before heading towards World Trade Centre Plaza. Two pinnacles of steel and concrete pierced the very sky, glinting in the morning sunlight.

As they approached through the narrow alley, a silver bird streaked across the innocent sky, smashing into the tower.

As the explosion rippled through the air, fragments hurtled to the ground. The tower exploded into flame, like a wounded giant.

The mother stopped dead, hand raised to mouth in utter shock. The frightened child screamed, as shocked citizens stared at the impossible vision.

The mother dragged the child away as blaring sirens echoed across the city. Seeking the shelter of a coffee house. The mother did not want her child to see that.

Time passed, coffee grew cold as rescue attempts swung into action.

A second blast was heard. A frightened man ran inside screaming, “the second tower has been hit!”

The woman looked up, face ashen as full shock took hold. She glanced around, was she safe? Surely the brave firemen could contain this?

Outside, police were directing people to safer parts. Overhead, the towers burned. The woman remained with her child, unsure of what to do.

The barman had the radio on. Everyone heard the report of the Pentagon being hit.

A startled customer mumbled, “Crikey, we are at war.”

The woman was shaking, fearing a hail of nuclear tipped warheads would follow. Elsewhere in the city, others shared this thought.

Then as the woman decided to leave at last, a rumbling broke the silence. Screams, followed by a cloud of dense cream smoke hit the coffee house.

The windows shattered, the walls shook. The woman grabbed her child and hid beneath the table. A lesson she had learned from “Duck and Cover.”

It was not long before the second tower fell. Before a mushroom cloud rose over the city, hiding the carnage beneath the pall of death.

The woman broke cover then. Dragging the terrified child outside, fleeing away from that cloud. She could hardly see. Eyes, clothing coated in concrete dust. Coated with remains that were unthinkable.

As she fled the child glanced back at the plaza. Through the daytime gloom, a nuclear winter had descended.

He saw the tall, jagged remains of the towers, standing there like some grotesque rib of beef. He closed his eyes, returning his gaze to the flight.

His mother discovered no transport system, was engulfed in fleeing crowds as the terror and chaos continued.

It took over two hours for her to reach home. Slamming the door shut. Then collapsing into the arm chair, shocked.

Both her and the child looked like ghosts. Hair, face and clothes coated in white. They were the lucky ones.

On that day, nearly three thousand died. Taken from family, friends, colleagues. Taken from the joys of life.

The woman survived that day.

That awful day, a day we all remember.