September 12 marks the second and final day of my 9-11 recollections. That morning in 2001, the Guv and I had bickered, because his jerk boss had informed him that they would be leaving that day for their planned business trip to Seattle if the airspace opened. Like many, I was still in shock and very afraid. He was pretty new to his job and insisted on following orders. He left for work after we patched things up as best as we could, and I made sure that both Petunia and I gave him big hugs and told him we loved him.
The morning was even worse than the day before. I sat at our kitchen counter, from which I could see Petunia in her playroom, and talked with a dear friend with whom I'd attended boarding school and college. On 9-11, she should've been at work on the 85th floor of one of the towers, and her brother should've been on the 86th -- but they were absent from work that day to sit at their mother's hospital bedside as she faced surgery for breast cancer. We cried together for a long time.
Mid-sob, I put my friend on hold, as I silently watched my sweet 11-month old Petunia let go of the couch on one side of her playroom and walk to the piano bench on the other side of the room. She looked at me and smiled and laughed, then clapped for herself and fell on her bottom. She had taken one or two steps before, but the girl up and decided to become a walker that day, and she couldn't have picked a better day for it. It's a gift she gave me -- and my friend, who shared my joy on the phone -- at a time when I needed it the most. When daddy came home that night, his trip cancelled for good, we celebrated, and we took a long walk together. One of Petunia's most special and endearing characteristics to this day is empathy, and I think that's the day it began.
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