At that time, I was six years old (I know, a little young, right? But I remember much of the day distinctly and what followed in my life afterwards) and living on Long Island, NY. My dad was in the army, at work. Daily did my younger sister, my mom, and I take the train to NYC and pass these twin towers on our city-trips.
The news was on, as usual, and as a six year old, I was going about my normal day. Eating my cereal. Trudging out to the livingroom and plopping my bottom on the cold wood floor to color with my sister at my side. I remember only vaguely my thoughts, though I do remember watching the crash live, my mom coming into the room.
It was not long before my Dad was deployed over to the Middle East. Still only six, I recall talking to him on the phone when he was in Iraq and asking what the noise I heard was in the backround.
The phone quickly handed off to Mom, he would reassure her that he was fine. That he was hiding under a desk at his office (which was inside one of Saddam's ransacked palaces, which he sent us pictures of. One of them was him, sitting in Saddam's gold-gilded throne).
Fortunately, nothing happened to him, and at the present time he is retired, but the time he was gone was one of the hardest, especially on my Mom, when she was homeschooling us and my Grandmother had fallen terribly ill. I feel that this was something of a "growing up" period for me. When I learned the world wasn't all gum-drops and fairy princesses.
The day that many died, and something of a turning point in my small and seemingly insignificant life.