Turning the radio up
As I sat in my office with a patient
Thinking it was an awful accident
Getting the phone call
From the Airman at the front desk
“The Pentagon has been hit.”
Advising my patient to go, now.
Telling him to try to make it home
The base would be on lock-down
Calling my husband without hesitation
Knowing the lines would soon be too busy
Being grateful to hear his sleepy voice
Assembling in our disaster teams
In the basement cafeteria
Sitting at tables waiting and wondering
Getting the news privately from a fellow officer
That our fighters were scrambled
Another plane was headed in our direction
Praying each time I went to the restroom
“Don’t let me be in here when it happens,
Don’t let them find me in here.”
Feeling compelled to volunteer
Wanting to triage at the Pentagon
Being equally frightened that they may choose me to go
Calling my family
In the afternoon when things got quiet
Saying, “I am safe. I love you. Happy Birthday.”
Waiting in the hospital
Waiting for orders
Waiting for patients that never came
Finally driving home after midnight
Nearly running over an Airman, in his reflective orange vest
Traffic patterns on the base changed that day, and for years
Thoughts foggy and hands numb on the wheel
Wanting to cry with my husband
Not being able to
Watching television coverage
The following night
Finally sobbing uncontrollably
Escorting loved ones to the Pentagon
The silent somber bus ride
The police escorts, the salutes as we entered
Viewing the scorched building, earth, tree
The tree that still stood, half green, half blackened
The General who towered and comforted
Stricken faces with nothing left
Mementos left behind in remembrance
Leaving the only thing in my pocket, a military coin
The banquet hall full of pictures
Cards, letters, stories, grief
Doing what I could by being there
Feeling in some small way useful
Nothing else that week or month
To think of them
To be present in my life
Still
Posted in Humanity, Loss, Poetry
sometimesihatemycat 