I get my ice cream, eat it on the way home and sit down on the couch. Literally, my booty makes contact with the cushions and the phone rings. It’s my parents and I am instantly nervous: 1) I just talked to them and 2) they never call me. And growing up, when the phone rang late at night, my parents never had to tell us, my brother and I knew, an elder, distant relative had died.
“Hello?” I demand. “Don’t panic,” is the first thing my always calm and collected mother says. Then perhaps she should not begin a conversation with, “don’t panic.” Because I immediately, P-A-N-I-C. “Don’t worry, Daddy is home and I talked to your brother, they are home, too.” “What is going on!” I demand. “The 35W Bridge just fell into the Mississippi River.”
For the love of Ganesh, this is the most surreal thing I have ever heard my mother day. And the words reverberate in my head. “Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” It’s just the bridge that connects our house to our office that we drive across twice day, every day just FELL into the RIVER. In what world do perfectly good bridges just fall down?
For the next five hours I sit in front of the telly watching CNN. I have not been this disturbed since 9/11 when one of my co-workers came into the office and said, “I think a plane just hit the World Trade Towers.” Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
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