I'm sure you remember where you were. You may even remember the time. I do. My roommate's mother called her to tell her to turn on the TV: I rolled over sleepily, and looked at the clock. 7:32 am. We turn on the tv, just in time to see the second tower fall. No-one knew what was happening, only that it hadn't been an accident. My roommate calls her boyfriend: he is panicked because his mother is an airline attendant with American Airlines. He knew she was on an international flight that day, and it's usually international flights that are hijacked.
We watch the tv for a long time, stunned. We watch people jump from the towers, people crying, blood and ash and smoke everywhere. We wonder if LA will be hit, or Disneyland. The whole day is a little fuzzy: I remember a prayer meeting being held in the chapel. I think I wore all black for a few days--I'm not good at mourning, and that was the only thing I could figure out to do. I remember classes being somewhat optional for a few days, or given over just to discussing the events. I remember how quiet it was, with no airplanes flying overhead. I remember when the airplanes did start flying again, how nervous you get now when one sounds too low to the ground, too close to the buildings.
Sometimes it feels odd to hear sound clips from that day, and feel the cold terror in the pit of my stomach again. Is it odd or morbid to remember that fear, the horror of all the death and injury and anguish? I don't know. I just remember. Every year.