I was three years old. The date was 9/11/01. I had been tucked away under a mound of blankets on a cozy, warm couch.I remember waking up to the sound of a flip phone buzzing madly on the kitchen counter. It kept ringing and ringing, but three year old me never thought to notify his mother that evidently somebody was frantically attempting to reach her. I don’t blame myself, for I was only three and it was a slow Tuesday (Was it a Tuesday? I think it was) morning.

The next thing I remember from that hazy memory was my mother crying hysterically. I didn’t know why. She wouldn’t tell me the reason for her grief. I can very vividly remember my mother hugging me and whispering to me that daddy won’t be coming home.

I remember crying because my mom was crying, but I still was quite confused. I didn’t know why daddy wasn’t coming home. We were sitting on the couch listening to the chilling voicemail my father left. His voice is rather shaky in the recording and there’s a hint of him tearing up.

“Madison, Madison… Oh my… It’s Ben. A plane just hit the trade center. Oh, oh dear. I can’t see ver–too well (he’s evidently trying to hold back tears by this point). I don’t think I’m gonna make it out. I… Madison, I want you to know how much I love you. Please tell–please tell the kids how much I love them…”

I don’t know. The fact that I could have done something to allow my father to speak to his wife and his son one last time before his death drills at me.

I could’ve done something to allow my father to speak to his wife before his death.