Where were you?
I was traveling on the Long Island Railroad in transit to New York City when a good friend received the first call. Initial reports were sketchy. In my mind I envisioned a small, non-commercial passenger plane. Shortly thereafter it seemed everyone’s cell phone was ringing. “A second plane has hit” rang through the train car — still rings in my memory as if it were yesterday. In that moment we all knew of the horror scant miles miles away. It was several hours before I arrived back home and saw the visuals of what I had by then heard but was otherwise unfathomable.
I remember vividly the conversations with my Dad, a WWII veteran — Which was more frightening Dad, Pearl Harbor or 9/11? The trail of smoke visible from my home on the south shore of Long Island, extending from lower Manhattan eastward out over the Atlantic as far as the eye could see. The posters of those tragically lost covering nearly every inch of available space in our city. The smell that lasted for months even as far north as my mid-town office at 7th Avenue and 35th Street. And the safety once taken for granted now deeply wounded. My sadness, fears and sorrow.
I pray for the victim’s families — I’m grateful to the heroes — I’m still angry with the despicable perpetrators.