Free Chicken Soup for the Soul of America by Jack Canfield Page A

details, he only knows this. I make a mental note to watch the evening news.
    By 9:20 that morning, a coworker and I are walking toward the Senate office buildings for my scheduled meeting with the senator. We hear a noise that makes us look at each other and ask, “What was that?” We glance around. No one seems concerned, so we walk on toward Capitol Hill.
    Near the Capitol, we stop to take photographs and watch a senator give a press conference. Our diversion is interrupted by the frantic screams of a woman, desperately calling out a name. My first thought was that she had lost a child. Trouble seems to be stirring—something is wrong.
    We step closer to the Capitol and listen to a man in a military uniform give a press interview. We are shocked to hear him say that the Pentagon is on fire as he gestures in the direction of a dark tongue of smoke in the near distance.
    Then a woman runs by crying uncontrollably—with a cell phone to her ear and a hand over her mouth. In the chaos, I look in every direction—trying to figure out what is happening. Reporters and cameramen are sprinting out of the Capitol, and they keep running. Then we hear shouts again—this time from security guards and police officers.
    â€œRun!” the guards command with exaggerated arm motions pointing away from the Capitol. “Run!”
    People scramble, scanning the sky for an unseen danger. A stranger tells us that it was a plane that hit the Pentagon, that a low-flying aircraft was in the area and they think that the Capitol might be a potential target.
    We run. We are not positive from what, but clearly know that we are in the wrong place. My heart thumps in my chest, and I wish this wasn’t happening.
    The world around me is surreal. My thoughts swirl from the illogical—wondering if this means my appointment with the senator was off—to horrific visions of foreign airplanes dive-bombing our nation’s monuments. In the numbing confusion, my mind fills in its own answers—answers straight out of wartime movies. I struggle to fight back visions of the entire city being leveled.
    Many blocks away, the crowds slow to a walk and people look around. I notice two uniformed guards, who seem like the right people to ask just what on earth is going on. They tell us the Twin Towers in New York City were “hit,” the Pentagon was “hit,” and they had heard that the White House Old Executive Office Building was “hit” as well. I gasp. We were just at that part of the White House! (Later that day, I would learn the information about the White House was, of course, incorrect.)
    Then the guards tell us the horrific news, that those planes that crashed in New York City and D.C. were hijacked American commercial airliners, filled with passengers. Unbelievable. I pause for a moment, slowly realizing that the smoke I saw coming from the Pentagon was wreckage where many innocent people just died. I say a silent prayer.
    This was beyond belief. I wonder if the entire nation is under full attack. I begin to think that I just may not make it out of this city alive and grab my cell phone to call my husband. The call doesn’t go through. I then try to call other coworkers in D.C. No use—none of the cell phones seem to be working. I ask myself: All this for a job?
    I continuously hit the redial button on my cell phone and clearly understand why people in dangerous situations call home. The feeling is overwhelming to communicate one last message—to let your loved ones know you’re fine . . . or not fine. I want to tell someone what is happening and how much I hate being where I am now. I want to tell my kids that I am sorry for not heeding their warning not to go. Then I wonder if those airliner passengers tried to call home too.
    We begin to walk, following the crowds, but to where we don’t know. Police officers are directing traffic. We walk by a senator who had gathered