September 24, 2001

I have nothing else to say about the Sept. 11. terrorist attacks. Like most Americans, I've said a lot already.

I've talked about it incessantly, even when I pointedly tried to ignore it for sanity's sake. I've also been wordless -- a lot.

I feel like I am 8 years old again. Just when I thought I was beginning to understand the world, just when I thought I saw how all the gears and
cogs fit together, I realize I have no idea how anything works.

I look to my elders for explanations, but they have none. We just don't have the emotional or verbal capacity to express how we feel.

The weekend after the tragedy, I drove to my hometown to stay with my parents. Although it was a trip planned weeks in advance, when I left
Friday afternoon I had a bigger mission than to help my parents with some remodeling. I was going to tear down drywall, rip up carpeting and
pull nails. More importantly, I was going to sleep.

I was going to put my head down on a pillow in my childhood bedroom, and
I was going to rest like I hadn't been able to all week.

I was going to listen to the sounds of the television through the floor
and know that my father had fallen asleep downstairs again.

I was going to hear my mother gargle in the bathroom and know that she
was just down the hall.

I was going to hear the screen door slam shut and know that my big
brother was outside playing with the dog.

I was going to feel safe.

But I didn't.

In my old bedroom, I heard snippets from HGTV muffled by the 200-year-old flooring of my parents' farm house. I heard the jingle of
the dog's collar as my brother wrestled a stuffed animal away from him. I heard the tap of my mother's toothbrush on the sink when she set it
down to rinse her mouth.

None of that comforted me.

Even my father's substantial hugs, which had always worked before, didn't help.

The news in New York, Washington, D.C, and Pennsylvania had occupied most of my days all week. Because I work in the news business, it's
impossible to get away from it. It's a story you cover. It's something you try hard to distance yourself from emotionally.

That weekend for the first time, the living hell in New York, Washington, D.C, and Pennsylvania came alive in my dreams. Nightmares
woke me every couple of hours.

I didn't know anyone near the World Trade Center. I didn't know anyone in the Pentagon. I didn't know anyone on the flight that went down in a
field near Pittsburgh.

But it hurts as if I did.

It's not just about feeling vulnerable, although, like most Americans, I feel more vulnerable than I ever thought possible.

I'm scared. I'm angry. I feel guilty about wanting bloody revenge.

I reach out to people standing in line at the grocery store. I want to commiserate with strangers. I want to do nice things for them. I let
cars in front of me in traffic. I give them grief-laden smiles. I call my parents every night. I e-mail friends just to say I love them.

I'm not sure what our country should or can do to make us feel safer and to start healing the pain. But I would like to feel comforted in my
father's hugs, to feel confident in my understanding of the world, to have the words to express myself -- and to sleep at night.

Heather Hare is a reporter for the Press & Sun-Bulletin, Binghamton, New York.