Halfway to work on the MARTA train, I remembered the date. I’d gotten on a public transit system in a major city without giving it a second thought. But in my building downtown, on the 18th floor, I couldn’t help but glance a bit anxiously out the window. Into that same blue sky.
That morning, I was on the way to my 2001 job as a radio correspondent covering Congress. At 9:00 a.m., as usual, I tuned in to the local Washington all-news station. It was carrying nonstop coverage from New York, about a plane hitting the World Trade Center, which at that hour was all we knew, but by the time I reached downtown DC had become the unimaginable. As I pulled up to my regular parking area, a Capitol Police officer told me “a plane just hit the Pentagon.” Looking up, I saw black smoke rising from across the river.
I ran for the building. In the chaos, the guards allowed me through, but as soon as I got in the door I heard running feet, looked up, and saw a crowd stampeding down the hall. Outside, we clustered in little groups, talking excitedly. We heard jet engines and instantly, unanimously, craned our necks upward. That plane was high in the air and headed away, to the west, but at some point, I heard a police radio squawk “…has changed course and is heading toward the Capitol!”
Of course, it never got there. Most of us went back to our lives without feeling any direct impact or loss. But we’re still staring up.