That Day

I remember the sky that day, how crystal clear it was, not a cloud in sight.

I remember hearing a partner in my office announce in a hushed tone that a plane had just hit one of the Twin Towers.

I remember the blood draining from my face and how I immediately dialed my uncle’s number. The phones in the North Tower were already dead.

I remember calling my brother, an NYPD detective, and how he rushed to the site in a police van. On his way through the Battery Tunnel, he saw my aunt running out of that same tunnel and called out to her.

I remember imploring my husband to go right back to PS 58 where he had just dropped off our sons and bring them right back home. It was my baby’s first full day of Pre-K.

I remember my co-worker saying that “a tower had fallen.” I asked “which tower, do you mean the radio tower??” I could not fathom that she meant one of the buildings.

I remember shaking with fear for 3 hours.

I remember how vulnerable I felt when they said we had to vacate our office building. My brother had warned me not to try to go home but instead to “go north.” The NYPD thought there would be more attacks, possibly on the subways or under the bridges. I thought to myself how far north should I go: to my sister in Westchester, my aunt in the Catskills? In the end I only went as far as my brother-in-law’s office at Columbus Circle.

I remember eating a dirty water dog with my boss on the corner of 54th and 6th. Sanitary conditions of a hot dog cart were the least of my worries that day.

I remember finally being able to take the train home with my brother-in-law. In our car was an advertisement featuring the Twin Towers in the background. I remember when we got off at Second Place at 5:30 pm, I could not believe there were still papers flying in the air. I later found out that #7 WTC had just fallen. There was dust covering everything: cars, plants, my windowsills.

I remember speaking to my aunt (the same one who fled through the tunnel) that night and how she couldn’t stop crying.

I remember trying to shield my kids from TV and newspapers; that wasn’t going to work.

I remember friends and relatives calling us from as far away as California, Italy and Taiwan to see if we were okay. We were all fine but their concern made me cry.

I remember the look on my brother’s face when he visited after a couple of days at Ground Zero and how we just hugged each other.

I remember calling my dear friend, Rhonda, a few days later to ask about her longtime boyfriend who was a firefighter. He was among the lost.

I remember being so nervous on the subways and how I started saying the rosary while I was still on the platform. One day, after I had gotten on the F train and finished praying, I remember opening my Time Magazine and reading an article about a New Yorker who said that in the wake of 9/11, he, too, had started praying during his subway commute.

I remember the months and months of obituaries.

I remember the smell of smoke that lingered and wafted our way until Christmastime and how there were red, white and blue ribbons in the rather subdued decorations that year, including those of my dear neighbors across the street who had lost their beloved granddaughter.

I remember sitting on the Brooklyn Heights promenade on March 11, 2002, the 6-month mark, trying to recall where exactly it was that those two majestic towers had stood in the skyline.

I remember at the 1-year anniversary, pushing through the revolving doors at my office and being handed a red apple, a small, significant gift to commemorate the saddest of days. And I thought about how most of those people were just like me, simply going to work that day, and the crying started again.

These memories and so many more from that day live on, as they should. We must never forget those who were lost on September 11, 2001: people from all walks of life, all ethnicities, all races, all faiths, many young, with their whole lives ahead of them. And all of them so painfully innocent. I could never forget that day.