Devin the Lost Child

September, 2001 was the worst experience I’ve ever had. There I was, eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when I look out the window and everyone’s running. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. But my first reaction was to call my mom; she would know what’s going on. I dialed her number, waited for her to answer, but she never did. I was scared, real scared. “She’s okay, Devin.” I told myself. “She’s all right. She’ll be home in a little bit; she’s just in a meeting. That’s all.” Next I tried my dad. He answered all right, but not on purpose. I heard people screaming in the background. I heard all the cries coming from the people next to him. I heard him moaning. I could tell it was him, because he has such a deep voice. Then I heard the old lady that might have been helping him. “No, Johnny, no!” Johnny was my father’s name. 

The first thing that popped into my mind was to sprint. Sprint as fast as I can to my mother’s work building; the one right next to my dad’s. I wanted to tell her my father is probably dead, and I wanted to make sure she was okay. By the time I got to the building, it was gone, and so was my mom. I sank my knees to the ground, and sat there, crying for hours. I just lost the two most important people in my life, and no one will ever replace them.