Nine years ago today, foreign terrrorists hijacked four planes and drove three of them into buildings, two in New York City, New York (the Twin Towers), and one in Washington, D.C. (the Pentagon).  Nearly 3,000 people were reported killed when the final reports came out several years later.

Among the dead was my husband, Hector Olivaro.  He died while trying to rescue people from the collapsed remains of the north tower before the tower ultimately fell in upon itself, killing or trapping all who were inside.  My husband was only 30 years old. 

He left behind me, his wife, Carmelina, and our twin boys, Jose Rodgrigo and Hector Ramon, Jr., who were only 10 months old at the time.  Our one son was born with severe heart defects and had already arrested eight times.  That he survived was truly a medical miracle.

I don't remember much of the funeral; guess I blocked it from  my momory.  Maybe that is a good thing.

I do, however, remember the attacks.  The images, the sounds, the horror of it all: years later, I still find myself falling into troubled sleep patterns and dealing with the fact that my beloved husband will never come back to life ever again.  He's gone forever from our lives; our lives have not been the same since.

The boys are now eight and a half, nearly nine; they ask endless questions about their father (well, Hector does anyway).  I know they must miss him, although, in reality, they have really known Hector the way I did.  They also ask about the attacks, but frankly, I am not ready to tell them the events about it.  It is still all too fresh (and painful) for me to deal with.

~To be continued.~