September 11

All three children are in bed, after a fairly smooth evening. Smooth, that is, until Abby started talking about the fact that today is a "holiday."

We've never told her about what happened on September 11, 2001, when she was but a month old. She's too young to understand, but who really understands it, anyway? Who can fathom that buildings that were standing aren't there any more? That people who walked the earth ceased to exist, in an instant, or an hour?

Abby started talking about a holiday and about a plane crash. I couldn't really understand from her how it was addressed in school, or what exactly was said. I asked her if she wanted to know more about it, and she said yes. So, in straightforward terms, I told her that planes crashed into buildings that day, and a lot of people died.

That unleashed a torrent of questions: What buildings? What planes? Was I on the plane? How did it happen? Was anyone we loved on the planes? Was there a fire? Did the fire department have to come? Why did the buildings fall down?

Then: Planes are terrible. I hate buildings. I'm never going into a building again. When I'm on a plane I'm going to take over the plane. I'm going to kill everyone on the plane. I feel like I'm going to die. I don't want to die until I'm a really, really old lady. Being alive is tough.

I thought I could gently explain what happened seven years ago today, but soon learned that there's no soft-pedaling that can take away the horror, even without mentioning the word terrorism.

I should have known better, should have remembered that Abby's ability to handle things emotionally lags far behind her intellectual curiosity. I should have known that showing her a photo of the World Trade Center towers wouldn't have helped her understand. Some things just aren't made better by being more concrete, even for a kid on the autism spectrum.

Just a few minutes ago, she called me up to her room: "Mommeeeee! Mommy! Come up here, quick!"

I went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Was Grammie Moore on the plane?" she asked me.

"No, honey, we saw Grammie Moore a couple of weeks ago, remember?"

"Oh yes. Was I on the plane?" she continued, worried.

"No, honey. You were right here with Mommy and Daddy."

"Oh, good. I was just worried about that. I wish I didn't ask about the planes," she said.

Me too, I thought. "It's OK, honey," I soothed. "You're here with us and we're all safe, together."

"That's good," she said. "I feel better now."

I wonder what she'll dream about tonight. Will she see planes bursting into flames? Buildings falling down? How will her mind come to grips with this new knowledge of hers, and file it away?

We said a prayer before I went back downstairs: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. May angels watch me through the night, until I wake in the morning light. Amen.

"There," I said to her. "Your guardian angels will watch over you while you sleep, and keep you safe."

"And God," she added. "They're the good ones."