A Funny 9/11 Story (Really!)
Now, don't get me wrong. I wept and I still weep with the nation about 9/11. I pray for the victims, and the survivors. Heck, for a long time I read cards for the brave people who worked at Ground Zero.
However, this is a story about the one-year anniversary of 9/11.
I have a friend who became a compulsive talker in middle age. She never stops talking. As in never. I mean never. In fact, one time I walked into a room to find her involved in a heated discussion - with herself.
And she speaks only of herself. Incessantly.
She and I hadn't seen one another in years, so I didn't know about this new development in her personality. (One of the hazards of living in a resort community is being looked up by old friends who are seeking free lodging during their vacations.)
That year she decided to spend her August vacation in our home. She stayed for a week, and by the second day my ears were bleeding. On and on and on she babbled. My husband and I grew so weary of her, that we took her to our tiny local airport, and paid a pilot to take her up for a ride. While she flew, we sat silently in our car, with our eyes closed.
When the week was up, she said that she had had such a fine time - she wanted to stay longer! She stayed and stayed until early September. By this time, my husband and I were half-mad with the sound of her voice.
She finally and defiantly made arrangements to fly home on the first anniversary of 9/11. She planned to board a plane at an airport much larger than the one in our little remote mountain town. That airport was about three hours away, and we had to drive her there.
Because she is disorganized, easily distracted, and always a little late, I didn't want to take any chances about her being late and missing her plane.
I helped her pack the night before, rose before the sun, poured coffee into her and tried to get her sleepy show on the road.
However, I suddenly realized that my colorful, happy clothing was disrespectful toward the victims and survivors of 9/11. I quickly jumped into all-black clothing, and away we went.
We arrived at the airport with hours and hours to spare. We settled into the coffee shop and watched TV. On the news, the names of the victims of 9/11 were being read.
My husband, a sensitive soul, began to weep. I began to cry, too. I said to him, "I know, sweetheart. What a day. I even wore black. See?"
My narcissistic friend reached over, patted our hands and said, "Aw, how sweet. Don't worry! I'll be back!"