September 11, 2016
This morning, I stood at the kitchen sink, eerily, just as I had 15 years ago, doing what I often do between 8:30 and 9:00am: washing the breakfast dishes while listening to WCBS radio. And then I remembered. With a great window in front of the sink, I gazed out beyond the yard into the sky.
9/11 was a glorious day with the bluest sky— a magnificent morning with the smell of Fall in the air. Three of my four girls were off to school. My littlest was playing in the playroom when the first report came through that there was smoke coming from one of the Twin Towers. Initial reports surmised a small plane had somehow crashed into the tower, but everyone was confused from the start, because the sky was so absolutely clear.
By 9:04 we knew the skies were anything but clear – and our world was changing. I looked at my little girl playing innocently nearby as her father and I watched a second plane crash into the second tower. Later that day, after we’d watched the towers collapse, I walked my four year old to preschool – the skies where we lived – still and blue – while the skies in downtown Manhattan were gray and toxic. My little world was still serene and untouched, but I wondered for how long. I wondered what the world would look like for my girls. I wondered if I’d be able to enjoy a beautiful Fall day ever again.