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About 30 minutes south of Albuquerque, in a little place called Los Chavez in the Rio Grande Valley. We had a couple of acres with some cottonwood trees — and a lawn because we’d put in an irrigation system. (New Mexico gets about seven inches of rain a year.)
I was in the shower in the master bathroom when my wife (no longer with us) poked her head in the door. She said my younger sister Stephanie (also no longer with us) had called to say a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I told her, over the sound of the shower, that the building would be fine, that more than 50 years ago a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building, and that certainly the Twin Towers could handle what I assumed must be a small private plane.
By the time I was dressed and downstairs, my sister had called again to say that the second building had been hit. By the time we found coverage on the internet (we’ve never had television in our home), both buildings and a world were gone.
The New Mexico sky is big, but never as empty as it was that day.Published in