On 9/11, I was living in Leominster, in the north-central part of Massachusetts, far closer to the New Hampshire border than to Boston.

I woke that day, late as usual, and rushed down the bedroom stairs. Usually, I listened to the radio in the shower; but that day I must’ve been in too much of a hurry. I dressed quickly and grabbed my Walkman as I ran out the door.

The day was gorgeous like you read about. The sky was a clear, pure blue. Everything seemed to sparkle in the sun’s loving rays. I reached the bus stop early and put the Walkman on. I think I checked that it was FM; all I heard was talk. There was a male-female team that co-anchored my morning rock, usually adding in some witty banter.

But, this day was different.

They were talking, but it wasn’t witty or banter-y. There was a deep sadness in their tones; an unwillingness to believe or accept that couldn’t be described – only felt. I knew, just from the hollowness of their voices, that something had happened, but I didn’t know what.