Peeking through one of those "do not enter" doors over by 14th and 10th Ave:
Loud planes still give me the creeps. If I hear something outside that sounds out of place I'll mute the TV, or stop whatever it is I'm doing and listen until it fades safely into the distance. It's residue from what I heard that morning.
It was unnatural. Mechanical. The apartment shook. Windows rattled. The sound reverberated off the pavement and between buildings. You don't think about that when you're at an airport watching a plane land. There the sound just dissipates in all that open space. And yet, for all of the racket it caused, it just faded away after passing overhead.
A few days later the rains came. It was a torrential downpour booming with thunder — hammering, cacophonizing on the roof of my apartment. I had just come home from Mars and had stripped out of my wet clothes. A fighter jet screamed overhead and my naked body crumpled onto the couch, also screaming, crying, wanting it to be silent again.