by Paula Neal Mooney
I turn on the TV.
Is that the Sears Tower with smoke billowing out of it?
No, those are the twin towers.
My Rottie pukes on the carpet, delaying my husband from driving down to his job in San Rafael, five miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Katie Couric talked to NBC's Pentagon correspondent, Jim Miklaszewski, as he heard a rumbling.
"I don't want to alarm anybody right now, but apparently it felt just a few moments ago like there was an explosion here at the Pentagon," he said.
"We're going to war. A plane hit the Pentagon. Don't go to work," I urged my husband. "They might hit the Golden Gate Bridge."
He stood in our great room, cleaning the light beige carpet, trying to take in what was happening.
We learned of United 93 going down in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
"Don't go to work," I pleaded. "There might be a fifth plane."
He stayed home.
I watched the reports all day, stupefied, woke up in the middle of the night and watched the news and nursed my baby and held him close.
Where were you on Tuesday, September 11, 2001?