I Remember

I remember.

I remember sitting in the middle of the living room floor, a cup of juice next to me. It was a normal morning for me, a careless six-year old, and I busied myself playing with my colorful toys. I always loved the blocks. I didn't have the plain square blocks; no, I had the ones that locked together when you stacked them on top. It was magic, the way they gripped each other, and I used to love building towers with them, towers that climbed high in the sky and stayed steady until I knocked them down.

I remember my mother turning on the television, checking the morning news as she always did after she'd given me and my siblings breakfast and washed the dishes. She pressed the power button on the television, and it instantly filled with gray static. She flipped through the channels until she landed on the news station.

I remember the look on her face when she saw what was happening.

I remember her standing, immobile, in the middle of the living room, staring with hollow eyes as she listened to the announcer frantically attempted to make sense of the chaos occurring. She called to my father in a soft, fearful voice, and he came walking into the room a moment later. They both watched the television, hypnotized. Silence, broken only by the television, filled the house. Not even my younger siblings made a sound.

I remember that the silence was dreadful. When I couldn't handle it any longer, I crept to my mother's side and began to whine, "Momma, what's wrong? Momma? Momma?" She patted me on the back of my head, but her eyes never left the screen. I saw a tear trickle out of her brown eyes and slide down her cheek. Slightly afraid, I moved away and sat back down on the floor, eyeing her warily. I then turned my attention to the television.

I remember the towers. The channel kept showing two tall towers shrouded in smoke and flame. They kept replaying a clip of an airplane crashing into the buildings, running it over and over and over again. It had to be important in some way, I knew, for it to be shown so many times. I watched as black dots plummeted from the buildings, soaring through the air until they crashed against the ground. I wondered what they were. They looked like ants to me, but as more and more of the 'ants' flew from the buildings, tears rushed from my mother's eyes. They couldn't be ants.

I remember my mother repeating words again and again. "The Towers fell," she said. "They've fallen. The Towers have been hit. They've fallen."

I remember building with my blocks. I built two towers, tall and strong, out of them, all the time keeping an eye on my mother. They rose steadily into the air, and I was careful to build them perfectly, making sure that each block fit into the other exactly. They were the best towers I'd ever built. When the towers were finished, I went to my mother and tugged at her sleeve.

"What is it, dear?" she said absentmindely, still watching the television.

"I built the towers, Momma," I said. "Look, I built you two new towers, see? Aren't they nice, Momma?"

She looked, staring at the multicolored towers for a few seconds before looking back to me. Pain exuded from her tear-streaked face.

"They're very nice, darling," she whispered. "Very nice."

"I can build more towers, Momma. Do you want me to build you more new towers?"

"Yes, dear."

"Good. But I'm gonna need more blocks, Momma. I'll tell you what. I can knock down these towers and build you some more out of what's left of them. Do you want me to do that?"

I remember how her voice cracked as she whispered, "Yes, dear. Rebuild the Towers."