Flight 93

“Oh Annika, they are barely noticeable.”
“Please, I’ve heard that one before.”

Having permanent scars from an accident is a conversation starter. Not having any siblings or biological parents around is definitely another. I have had this exchange countless times in my ten years since it all happened. Yet, what never fails to disappoint is the reaction I see when I tell them I was in a plane crash. I remember that plane ride like it was yesterday.
The air smelled of overly cloroxed objects and dry, unsatisfying food. I impatiently sat in my seat wishing my plane ride would be over. At the time, I was merely a child who shouldn’t have been on Flight 93.
Everywhere I looked I saw chaos. Crying, coughing, and heavy footsteps became the melody to the planes harmonic rev. My tiny eyes darted from passenger to passenger inspecting them. Many of them were moving around to one another with worried expressions. I wanted to be on the ground, the safe, sturdy ground.
Within a matter of minutes, I found myself confused as I studied my mother’s facial expressions. She had seemed calm amongst the busy plane. A man with a beard the color of graphite, strong bulky arms, and an orange baseball hat walked towards the two of us. He had sweat stains on his clothing and spoke with deep breaths. I thought he was about to cry.
I kept looking at a large grass meadow below me. It felt calm, appealing, and a pleasurable place to run. The airplane was very confusing. My mom continued whispered murmurs with this man and began to move around. She would abruptly stand up and look about before returning to our seats to comfort me. Mother left one more time and met at the front of the plane with the others. All adults were consulting with each other.
The small discussions between the adults soon became a plan. Crying and coughing turned into shrieks and panic attacks. Was I the only one who had no clue what was occurring?
I felt my seat buckle slam against me as I entered a state of perplexity. Like a tornado, a millennia of events happened at once. The meadow below me, so open and clear, soon became blurry as the plane rumbled with anger and betrayal. The dark thought of death and never seeing my mom crept into my brain.
From here things went fuzzy and I only see what happened next in my nightmares.
However, I do recall my mother saying, “Never forget that I love you Annika. Our actions are for our country. Mommy will see you again.”
The constant retelling of the same story of my scars does not help my psyche. It’s as if my healed wounds are re-opened again. I was the lone survivor. It took time, but I finally understood my mother’s wise words and realized she was a hidden hero among us that stopped the 9/11 attacks from going any farther.