Remembering 9/11: The Things We Carry

I was at work. Tired. Not quite awake after spending a goodly amount of my sleep allotment writing a song the night before. 

I drifted down to the break room, sluggishly snaked around the few men filling the space, put two quarters in the coffee machine, and bent to straighten the cup. At fifty-cents a shot, I didn't want to waste a drop. As I straightened, lifting the black gold to my lips, I became aware of silence. 

No one was talking. 

Everyone stood like marble staring at the small TV hung from the ceiling, and from which no sound came because the volume was always set to mute.