Ruminations and recipes from a small kitchen in a big city.

12.9.06

Distance.

Five years ago I was in the city and T. was in the country. We were in our country house period and I was commuting three times a week, staying in town and returning midweek and at weekends.

It was September 12 here. I knew nothing until I went out and retrieved the newspaper at half past six in the morning.

Then the phone rang. It was T. 'I don't want you to go to work,' she said, perfectly rationally and perfectly irrationally, both at the same time. It had happened on the other side of the world, but what's that got to do with it? Evil can happen anywhere.

I went to work and stared out from the top floor of my building at all the other buildings and thought thoughts that I never thought I would think and should never have had cause to think.

Distance that day meant nothing.

2 comments:

Ian T. said...

That day kind of stays with you. We were up watching The West Wing, which was interrupted by a news bulletin after the first plane hit... and then all the unimaginable rest of it unfolded.

kitchen hand said...

I had a Herald Sun large-headline moment, Ian. I had been to bed early the previous night. Oddly enough, the only other large-headline moment I remember was my Dad walking in with the Herald in November 1963: Pres. Kennedy Assassinated.