Who wants to fly on September 11? Not me. I used to move flight dates just to avoid it. But since my flight to Bacolod was booked for me by one of the editors, I just had to do it this time around.
I remember where I was on that day in 2001. (Don't we all?) I was at the reading for a new play. The Fil-Am playwright got a message and was distraught. He asked if there was a TV at the department. There was. And we watched the images of WTC play over and over. Surreal.
September 11, 2008. My parents took me to Terminal 3 early in the morning. Before we parted, my father handed me an image the size of a large thumb: the Sacred Heart. His mother had given it to him when he was to leave for Zamboanga. She thought he might not return.
I kissed my parents goodbye and told them I love them, the equivalent of last rites in case of the worst. Inside the terminal, nuns of various orders seemed to be numerous. Strange comfort. Half of my siopao fell to the floor--not a good omen. But it was a good flight. We arrived at New Bacolod-Silay Airport earlier than scheduled.
Flying on September 11? No problem.
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