I vividly remember the tall, chrome pillars that decorate the airport's entrance; the bustling and hurrying of people from all walks of like to that one place they had in common: a destination. Whether one was from London on their way to Los Angeles, or from Dubai en route to Hong Kong, I was standing in the middle of it all. I remember envisioning a trajectory line stemming from each person to predict the path on which they would next walk. Waiting at the gate became something as common as waiting for a commercial in between my favorite cartoons. My mother's co-workers began to get to know me and quiz me on the different types of airplanes cruising on the bare concrete of the runway. If I had guessed wrong, I was corrected and never forgot the right answer again. I'd often guess where each departing plane was going and where each incoming flight was coming from. Sometimes I was right; most of the time I was wrong. It was simple, mental playthings like these that I tested myself with in the midst of all the waiting. Every time I entered this massive center of transit in the middle of nowhere, I grew increasingly connected to the sky. I was even so lucky to have entered the cockpit on some of these flights. The pilots showed me the dazzling array of incomprehensible buttons, switches, knobs, and latches. Some glowed blue while others were green. At the end of the day, this very stimulating environment for a toddler was too good to be true. In a way, it was, but it was beyond my scope of understanding just yet. I was too young to realize that something so marvelous and beautiful as a harbor for the sky was very vulnerable and had plenty of potential for abuse. This potential was realized in the sudden terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001. I remember seeing on television the very vessels which I had guessed in games of trivia slam into the World Trade Center in New York City. The juxtaposition was unsettling, to say the least.