The Fall

Twenty minutes.

Hard to believe only twenty minutes ago my life was normal. Tuesday morning sunshine ruled the morning and the sun sparkled off the Manhattan skyline below my window.

That was before the plane hit.

I saw it happen. I was dumbfounded; I sat at my desk and just watched it get bigger and bigger. I started to say “That is wrong,” but before I could get the words out, it flew into the building, directly below me. WHAM! At least twenty floors down. We all felt the impact, and the fireball that rolled past the windows was so hot that many of them cracked.

We tried to find a way out, but the stairwells were full of smoke and flames. The air grew thick and acrid, and the smell of burning rubber, plastic and flesh was enough to make us all gag. William threw a chair through the window. The fresh air tasted good, but the smoke became a chimney roaring past us. The people below looked very small as we stood on the narrow ledge.

“I can’t burn, man.” That’s all William said to me before he jumped. I wonder what he thought about as he fell. I’ve had time to think a lot; ninety-eight floors is a long, long way down.

I see the ground now, coming up fast.

I love you Mom.

I hope it doesn't—