Do you remember where and what you were doing on 9-11.

I remember coming upstairs from the basement of my parents house.
My mother had the Tv on, the look on her face was one of omniscient silence.
Today was also the day I was leaving on a greyhound to travel to Summerland BC to pick apples with my good friend. I stood watching the live footage thinking to myself "how is this going to affect me?"

The second plane crashed into the second building as the two of us sat, shocked by what we saw. The morning continued with an awkward feeling, uncertainty was the err of time. A friend picked me up to take me out for breakfast to the University of Alberta (the powerplant to be exact), for a carbohydratic meal of pancakes and hashbrowns (I'm vegan you see).

The two of us sat in the car, wondering, what does this mean. The sense of vertigo felt as though New York was the base of a mountain that we all live on. The powerplant provided us with a massive tableu of pixilated airplanes on a plane white screen. The costly irridescent bulb of the projector whincing as it shon images of people diving from 80th story structual cavities caused by the momentum of flying debris.

The entire day felt hot and muggy as though forest fires raged on in the north, as they often do in the summer months in Edmonton.

The greyhound ticket was actually a gift from my father, he didn't much like the fact that his own son had vehemently decided to hitchike to BC, rather he decided to pay my fair. I'll never forget the moments while we sat in the transient bus depot, filled with chrome detail and well worn 70's designed wait room chairs, my father stood up, walked to the convenience store at the end of the station, and returned with a special "afternoon edition" of the Edmonton Journal.

The edition was filled with images likely electronically sent across the glode in those precious few hours before all media became rigidly monitored and censored by the American Goverment. In total I believe there were only a few pages, entirely filled with photos, weighing in with similar magnitude as... well... what?

Dad shed tears whan he hugged his son and bid him farewell and a safe journey in that late afternoon light. He hugged me tighter than ever before and his tears made me think of him as infantile for I had scarecly seen him cry in my whole life.

Once on the bus I found myself a seat near the back, as I tend to do, and wrote in my journal, and looked out the window and cried. I missed home, I missed my family. I wondered when I would see tham again. I wondered how the events that took place in NYC had affected my day.