I was already working at my desk when our son called to say something terrible had happened in Lower Manhattan. I ran to the TV, then quick called David, also at work by then. He knew only about the towers and not the other catastrophes. “Really?” he kept saying in disbelief. “Really?”
But disbelief had vanished when I called back an hour later to ask how his people were doing.
“Well, we’re chasing our guys still,” he said. “Three flew out of Logan this morning.” Then he hesitated. “So far we’ve heard from everyone but Bobby,” and in his use of this fond nickname I recognized in my spouse of many years that certain lightness of manner he uses to mask extreme worry. “We’re not sure yet about Bob.”
Within the hour we were all sure: Bob had been on Flight 175 when it suddenly veered and hit its mark.
His wife was shattered, as were their two daughters and their son, who, the press noted in one account, wept unashamedly throughout his interview with them. He wept again when he called and asked David to deliver the eulogy at that funeral-with-no-body, where weeping was general.
David simply stood and told a few stories: about a man everyone loved, who could get up antic games of Frisbee in any old parking lot, pinch-hit at golf, though he didn’t really play golf, and convince five grown guys what a good time it would be to drive 300 miles in February and stay in the world’s tiniest motel to watch his daughter play basketball. “And we all agreed afterward,” said David. “It was a really good time.”
He told about the dozens of people who had called the company to offer condolences, many sobbing as they spoke. He told about the one who said what everyone knew to be true: that he was the nicest person he had ever known.
Most of us say that when our time comes we want to go quick. Bob did that, as we pray most did who died on this date nine years ago. I myself like to think of them of them not as they died but as their families last saw them, when, on that blue cloudless day, they rose from their beds and stepped lightly into the morning.
EXIT ONLY 
Dear Terry,
What a nice column!
Thanks for helping us remember that day.
Thanks for the great column. I know it is hard to remember and write about this. God bless.
You know…there are so many things I could say about that day 9 years ago…but the most frustrating is that to some people, I feel like it’s become a cliche to talk about where they were that day and how it affected them. That is painful to me.
Thank you for this…
That was a lovely column. Its hard to believe that nine years have past since that sad, sad day.
That “blue cloudless day” is etched in my memory as well. The juxtaposition has always struck me. Thank you for honoring this deep loss.