Reflection

     You were so young and naive. The adults around you were trying to protect you, hide the TVs, "You can't watch PBS today," they'd say. But you watched anyway. You were intrigued. When you're teacher comes in to class, her face is sullen and pale. You barely notice, you weren't worried. She gathers you and your classmates into a prayer circle to pray. To a God you are no longer sure you believe in. She tells you something terrible has happened and you must pray for the people stuck in the buildings. You do not want to pray. You want to go outside and play in the remaining hours of summer the world will ever know. 


     You're home now, sitting behind the couch. Watching. You're Mom doesn't know you're in here. Watching. Images of blood, dust, fire, place, even hate, flash before your eyes. You understand what is happening. You feel a strong sense of patriotism rise from within your body. A feeling that has since turned to resentment toward the hateful world you live in. You think you understand what's happening as you sit there, behind the couch. Watching. You don't. You think you understand now, tears flowing down your face as you write. Tears full of anger. Tears full of confusion. Tears full of disappointment. Disappointment in a lost childhood. You don't understand now, even though you think you do. You never will. How can one understand such hate? Hate against those who did it. Hate against those who hate those who did it. Hate for the hate that runs hot in the blood of our American society. Hate at confusion.