A Reflection
like leaves rippling in water
I remember exactly where I was, in that hazy way that all childhood memories drift back to me. All vivid colors and blurred edges, like a work by Monet.
I was sitting in my parents’ bed. That I know for a fact. There was one of those cinder-block TVs in a cabinet on the opposite wall. The kind that made an electric crackling sound as it turned on and off. The images appearing and disappearing with a lag from the center of the screen.
It was fall, so I was probably wearing my footie pajamas. That I’m pretty sure of. They were made of a fleece that was much too heavy for those stuffy California evenings and had little rubber dots on the feet so I couldn’t slide on the floors…But I loved them. I slept with a fan on and the covers off.
My dad was gone somewhere. Maybe he was just at work. On these lazy little kid days before I was old enough to go to school, whether he was gone gone or just gone for the day, I’d crawl into my parents’ bed with my mom and eat my cereal with bleary eyes and messy hair. Sometimes we’d watch the cartoons. Dora the Explorer, Arthur, Tom and Jerry. Sometimes we’d watch the news. Or, rather, she’d watch the news while I looked out the window and watched the birds float past and the lizards scurry over the rocks.
Today, we were watching the news.
I don’t think I paid attention until my mom gasped. Great, billowy red and black smoke flooded the TV screen. She must’ve jumped out of bed. I remember sitting there by myself. The phone rang incessantly. The dog barked, disturbed by the sudden noise and tension.
She talked rapidly, saying many words I didn’t understand and some that I did. We were in lockdown. I knew what that word meant. We couldn’t leave the base, and no one was allowed back on.
Again, smoke filled the screen. The newscasters spoke fast and loud, almost shouting over what must’ve been a cacophony of words and voices pouring into their headsets.
Again, smoke filled the screen. And again. And again.
“Mommy?” I asked. “Why do those planes keep flying into the buildings?”
She came over to me. The phone cord stretched to its limits as she sat down on the bed beside me, put a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s ok, they’re replaying it. It happened. Now they’re showing it again.”
It felt like we spent the whole day like that: sitting side by side, watching in horror as they showed the footage again, and again, and again. We heard from my dad at some point. He was ok, but he wouldn’t be home that night. The base was still in lockdown, I don’t remember for how long. They were afraid bases would be targeted.
People my age are some of the youngest of whom you can ask, “Where were you on 9/11?” But still, only some of us remember.
I remember.
I remember because it changed my life dramatically. My dad was now usually gone gone rather than just gone at work. My mom and I would go to the airfield and wave goodbye to him through the chainlink fences. Together, she and I made daisy chains out of colored strips of paper. As we stapled them together, we’d count. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty strips of paper stapled together, winding around my room. Every day he was gone, I got to tear one piece of paper off, and I knew he was one day closer to being home.
I had a picture of him in his cammies sitting at a table in some dry and foreign desert. He was smiling, and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked truly candid. One of the only times I’ve seen him that way — caught off guard. He must’ve emailed it to my mom. She printed it off on a big piece of paper. And every night, I folded it up into a square and tucked it under my pillow. During the day, I put it in my pocket or unfolded it and set it on a table. I brought it to school in my backpack and to sleepovers.
Kids made fun of me. They tried to steal the picture. They called me a baby. I stole the picture back from them and clutched it tight in my hands.
My dad brought me beautiful things from far away places. A hand-painted tea pot — vivid red with tiny colored dots of paint meticulously patterned around it. Bracelets made of cow horns with stamped metal hammered into them. A gauzy white scarf embroidered in fine blue thread. I still have all of these things. I still have that picture of him, worn so soft from years of holding it close that it feels as soft as the pillowcase I used to tuck it under. Those things I gained.
But some things, I still lost.
Tomorrow is September 11, and on this day, I think it is important to pause and remember the things that changed, the things and the lives that were lost.
I think it is also important to be thankful for the things we have. Like my dad now safe at home, and my mom who knew how to keep our family connected even when we were thousands of miles apart.
No recipe could suit today and everything it means for me and for so many others. So, I decided that, instead of doing my typical story-recipe this week, I would stick to the essay above. This essay was originally published for paying subscribers September 11, 2022. Next week, lookout for a recipe worthy of my favorite month of the year.
But until then, I hope you have a peaceful day of remembrance.
Thanks, as always, for reading,
Juliana
PS —
Have you guys heard about Bookshop?
If you love supporting smaller, brick-and-mortar bookstores but love shopping from the comfort of your home (or, like me, you live in a teeny tiny town with a lovely but sometimes limited book selection) you’ve got to check them out. 10% of their sales go to local book stores, and 10% goes to their affiliates (like me!) every time you buy a book. They’ve got all the selection of a big online bookstore, and they’ve donated $20 million and counting to bookstores!
I now have a little “storefront” on their site, so if you’re wanting to see or buy some of my favorite books, head on over to my Bookshop site! Right now, my Bookshop lists include my Cookbook Collection, My Work, My Top 10 (always changing), and My New Foray into Scary Books.
You can find a favorite cookbook of mine, “Half-Baked Harvest: Super Simple,” there!