Pillar of Smoke

Tuesday, September 11th, was a perfectly beautiful day in Washington.

Cloudless blue sky. Golden sunshine. I was wishing it wasn’t a workday.

I crossed paths with my boss in the hallway. She said to go home. The Pentagon had been bombed.

I set out to walk the two miles home. How could such a thing have happened on such a gorgeous day? At Massachusetts Avenue, NW, near the entrance to the Third Street Tunnel, there was a terrible traffic jam. It was then that I saw my first undercover policewoman. A hand with bracelets at the wrist slapped an Official Business sign on the dashboard of the car alongside of me. Out stepped what looked like a floozy -- short skirt, high heels, long earrings and all -- who minced over to the center of the gridlock and began directing the snarled cars.

I got home and looked towards the Pentagon. A column of black smoke kept rising to the sky. It was like the Book of Exodus which relates how God guided the ancient Israelites to the land of Canaan with pillars of smoke by day and fire by night. Truly, what had happened was of Biblical proportions

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