What I Remember from 9/11 These are just a few select memories from that day. I chose to use my experience on 9/11 to fundamentally change the way I lived my life. I made some good choices; I made lots of bad decisions. But my son, my wife, my home, all came into being because of the radical choices I made in response to being at Ground Zero. It was the most tragic thing I’ve ever experienced; it was the most awful blessing I’ve ever received. I will never forget . . . Walking onto a Brooklyn avenue and seeing a gorgeous, cloudless blue sky. Trailing across it and over the water were two long, thick lines of black smoke coming from the Twin Towers. In lower Manhattan, the shattered glass coating the sidewalks of Fulton Street. The force of impact and the explosions had shattered all the storefront glass in a three block radius. People lining both sides of the streets, watching (we all thought, from a safe distance) as the towers burned. The soft, fluttering sound of paper floating in the air. Turning onto Broadway, seeing a woman fall to the ground, and a man trying to help her up. Reaching them, then hearing the world snap, an awful thundering roar, then looking up and seeing thirty stories of ash, dust, and debris barreling up Broadway. My words to her, “We have to go now.” Holding her hand as we made it around the corner, then the world going silent, warm, and black. Knowing that I was going to die. Feeling stupid and alone in my final moments. The smoke clearing. A female EMT who stopped to tape up the woman’s ankle, then dashing off. A NYC building inspector washing my hair as I bent over an industrial sink in a nonprofit’s office. Coughing out a powdered building. His single act saved me a hospital stay. Pulling legal cases printed from Westlaw out of my bag, so I could go back out and help. I tied a water-soaked rag around my face. After ten or fifteen minutes, hearing that sound again. Turning and running with an elderly man and woman . . . finding shelter in a pizza joint before debris swallowed us. The sounds of people beyond the steel security door, shouting for help. Rushing out, calling out to anyone, hearing only silence, and feeling myself being overcome by smoke. Seeing three lights up the street, connected to firefighters, who pushed me into the safety of a building. The shocked look of a woman behind a deli counter; being handed a bottle of water. Seeing myself in the bathroom mirror and understanding. Reaching my office on the phone. The chill of disbelief that went through me when the paralegal said, “They’re gone.” Back outside, the streets erupting in terrified screams at the sound of Air Force fighter jets buzzing low over the island (it really felt like an island). The face of a police officer, numb with horror, as I asked, “How can I help?” I don’t remember his reply. The pilgrimage across the Brooklyn Bridge, running into Ramon, another paralegal from my office, and using his phone. My dad’s voice. The bottles of water placed in my hands, the makeshift shower stations created by people, strangers who waved me over to give help. The Brooklyn bar and the free drinks. Reaching home. Feeling numbed and safe.
Posted on: Thu, 11 Sep 2014 21:25:37 +0000
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