9/11 - a love story?

I had a hard time titling this piece because it felt like it can go in a lot of directions. Do I want to capitalize on a recognizable event? Do I want to focus on myself? Do I want to make sense of something that makes no sense? It’s a love letter filled with all of the emotions that go along with love. The original prompt for this piece was: “Things can change in an instant”

I love New York City, it’s where I grew up; not as a child but it’s where I became an adult. It’s where I got to know myself 

I got to know the different flavors of the city having lived in various neighborhoods throughout the city for the 20 years and especially loved it in the fall. At that time of the year, the air and light have a certain quality to them that feel electric and inspiring. The skies are clear, bright blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. The air is slightly crisp but still warm. It’s that magical time after the heavy, slow, hot and muggy summer and before the cool autumn sweater weather turns cold and bone chilling. Those days usually made me feel alive, inspired and like anything was possible. Those kinds of days are part of the reason I lived there for so long. 

One particularly beautiful blue morning I had a strange feeling. I didn’t want to get out of bed. At that time I lived in Greenwich Village, on Sixth Avenue and West 4th St. I had a view down Sixth Ave straight to the Twin Towers when I walked out my door. The view,relatively unobstructed, felt like one of the few straight and wide open views of the Towers. I felt gratitude, if not everyday, very often, that I lived in NYC and specifically in Greenwich Village. 

I didn't think the towers were all that beautiful, especially not close up, but the view from afar was breathtaking. They anchored the importance of New York City and were a physical representation of all that it means to be New York. 

After those years in NYC, once I’d moved to California, I realized that in order to survive and thrive in New York, one needs to stand tall and believe that they are the center of the universe. Which explains a lot about New Yorkers. 

Back to that beautiful day. I worked from home at the time and I lived with my boyfriend, Tony, and his dog, Jake. I was 28, had recently changed careers and started my own fledgling accessories company. Tony was 26 and worked in midtown as an IT professional for a start-up, though I don’t think they were called start-ups then.  Tony and I had been together on and off for 4 years and I could feel us getting to a crossroads. 

I’d moved back into the apartment with him and was working at home. Our regular schedule was that I walked the dog in the mornings while he headed to work in midtown. I  liked to get out and walk around my neighborhood for exercise and inspiration. I rarely slept in. 

That morning was different.

I still don’t know how, why or what I felt but I felt something that morning. 

Tony got up, walked Jake, dropped him off and headed to the West 4th St subway stop at the corner. Uncharacteristically, I slept in until the phone, a landline, rang an hour later. I grudgingly got up and answered it. 

It was Tony calling. 

I assumed he’d forgotten something and was calling to ask me to drop it at his office. Instead, he said, “Grab the camera, go outside and take a picture! A plane that just hit the World Trade Center!” The crash had just happened and was reported to be a small Cessna. Obviously something like this doesn’t happen every day so I obliged. 

I grabbed my faded cutoff jean shorts from the floor and pulled them on over my still summer tanned legs then slipped my feet into a pair of flip flops. My hair and teeth were unbrused and I still wore my tank top, with no bra, that I’d been sleeping in only moments before. I only intended to be downstairs for a few minutes before I came back, ate breakfast and started my day. 

Once outside, I stood alongside a small gathering crowd whose numbers increased exponentially within minutes. Soon hundreds of other people were crowding the sidewalks of Sixth Ave. to get a view and see what was happening. The North Tower was hit from the north and I could see the plume of smoke billowing to the east, over the city from near the top of the tower. 

A young guy standing next to me said, “Man, it’s the fucking terrorists!”  

My still sleepy brain was skeptical and I began to walk downtown to get a better view.  I walked towards the Twin Towers and as each block passed, more and more people were in a panic and I knew it wasn’t just an accident or if it was, it was a big one but still, nobody really had any idea what happened. People had cell phones at the time, but they were not smart and they were jammed. I hadn’t even brought mine with me. Apparently no one could get a call through either.

I only had my camera and was taking photos, still not knowing exactly what was happening when a blast to the South Tower erupted leaving the top portion of that tower in smoke and flames too. It wasn’t totally visible from where I was but the smoke and flames only grew. 

Like everyone around me, I was confused. 

I slowly picked up what was happening from passersby as I walked.  About an hour and half after I’d dragged myself out of bed, the south tower collapsed. It fell in on itself in an enormous and thick cloud of smoke and debris.

 I was dumbstruck. I couldn't believe it. 

Where moments before the two hulking sentries stood, now there was only one lonely twin. I kept walking. I was in a proper daze by now. And I didn’t quite know what to do. I couldn’t go back inside, it felt too confining and I knew it would leave me in a panic, so I kept walking. 

My brother worked in a building a few blocks from the World Trade Center. So did one of my best friends. I walked towards them. Thirty minutes later, I found myself ten blocks from the smoldering mess. Then, the North Tower collapsed. I can still see it in my mind's eye. The gigantic plume of smoke, ash and debris heading down Greenwich Avenue was bigger than anything I could have ever imagined. It must have been well more than 50 stories high because it dwarfed, then engulfed a 40-story building that I would live in a few years later. 

Along with hundreds or more likely thousands of ash-covered office workers fleeing the area, I turned and began my walk in the opposite direction. I was still clean in my shorts and flip flops. I felt out of place. There was nothing I could do and no way to help anyone at the moment. I couldn't reach my brother or my friend. I didn’t know what time it was or how long I’d been walking or even where or why but I found myself walking across the pedestrian bridge that crossed over the Holland Tunnel entrance. I hardly ever came to that area and I don’t think I’d ever walked across that bridge before, though I knew it would lead me in the direction of home. 

Out of nowhere, I felt something inside of me say Stop, don’t go this way. Turn around and go another way. I had no capacity to argue or reason with myself at that moment so I listened to whatever or whoever that voice was. 

In the middle of the bridge, I turned around. 

I decided to find another way home.

Less than one block later, a block that I would have missed had I continued on the bridge, I saw Tony. I’d never before, nor since seen an expression like that on his face. It was a combination of terror and relief, disbelief and confusion and fear and love.   He ran to me and we embraced and cried. It was sometime in the afternoon, maybe about 3 or 4. We hadn’t talked since he’d called and woken me up that morning and he'd been out looking for me since then. I realized the whole day I’d felt almost like I wasn't there, or it wasn’t real until I saw Tony and he hugged me. It made me feel like I was real and the day was real and what had happened was real, even though it seemed impossible.

We still talk about our experience when 9/11 comes up. Or when people ask when we decided to get married. In fact, we were in NYC recently having brunch with friends from London who happened to be visiting at the same time. Tony and I had been arguing that morning but put it aside for the day to spend time with Brits who we hadn’t seen in years. We went toThe Odeon, having a meal in view of the new World Trade Center buildings. Ground Zero was a stop on our friends’ tour that day. It was inevitable that we would share the story with them. It’s a story that always felt a bit romantic. We’ve been sharing it for more than 20 years and sometimes when we share it, though true, I wonder if it sounds sugar-coated? Does it sound like a scene from a Hollywood film setting us up for, well I’m not sure what. Part of me wants to just say to people, and they lived happily ever after. The End. Or, I’ve played with some cheesy endings like this: I didn’t know where the hours had gone or where I'd been all this time but I knew that I was found. I’d been found while so many other people, and beliefs, would be permanently lost. That moment was the one where I knew why I stopped on the bridge and knew that our relationship was not over.  

If it were a film, it might have ended there. But life is not a film and it hasn’t ended. In the challenging times when I question things, I automatically go back to that feeling on the bridge. And each time we tell that story, I feel like it adds weight to that moment in time. Sometimes I wonder how much pressure a single moment can take? It’s true that recalling that day and that moment always reminds us of the deeper connection we have. Will it always be the defining moment that bears the weight of our connection?