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At 12, I preferred to color between the lines.
I was probably darkening my doodled, misshapen stars in my notebook when my seventh grade teacher received the call.
He rushed out of the room, and rushed back in to turn on the loop of a plane, a tower and a TV screen full of smoke.
As a 12-year-old, my post-9/11 world still rotated around the typical routine: after school snacks, play rehearsal, church on Sundays.
I couldn’t predict that my world, by 2011, would be in danger of tilting off its axis.
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