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A sleep-in session interrupted
by the ringing of the phone.
Television blinks between channels,
images the same on every network.

Sitting in stunned silence,
listening to speculations of cause,
later turning to comparisons –
Seventh of December,
one thousand, nine hundred and forty-one.

Shock and awe, awe and shock.
Vengeance coursing through my veins,
Repeating images flash across the screen.
Fear matures, becoming anger.
Denial matures, becoming realization.

Restitution must be made,
those responsible must be hunted down.
And I sat for days, watching each
puzzle piece come together
while images of death and despair
burned into my brain,
creating a numb cocoon,
gauzing the gaping wound
in my heart and mind.

That shell of safety felt in
1941, destroyed by a buzz in the air,
rebuilt by parents and grandparents,
shattered once again.
It had been coined flying death by some,
when the air machine was built.
And on September 11, 2001,
I understood why.