9/11 — A Day to Celebrate or Mourn
Am I a bad person to ask you this?
My day began with a slow, and satisfying stretch — a stretch that made my legs shiver vigorously. As I opened my eyes, I could see the fan blades spinning in a steady, rhythmic circle, almost hypnotic in their motion. Round and round they went, cutting through the air with a quiet, soothing whirr. I wiped the sweat on my forehead with my tank top and slowly stood up.
Still drowsy, I shuffled slowly down the hallway, my feet dragging against the cool floor. As I reached my parents’ room, I found my father standing by the dresser, buckling his belt with practiced ease. His movements were steady and familiar, a quiet part of his morning routine. Just as the faint clink of metal echoed in the room, I switched on the fan.
“It was quite hot last night, was it?”, I asked my father.
“What did you say?” he asked, his tone gentle but confused, as if my words had drifted past him like a faint breeze. I cleared my throat and repeated myself, a little louder this time.
“Hot? Not really,” he said. Just a few moments later, he told me that he was leaving for work.
Coming in like a storm, the door opened just as my father left, and my sister took his place with the liveliness that filled the somber room.
