I don't have a way with numbers, but there are a few I've made a point of remembering: 8:46, 9:03, 9:59, and 10:28. The time the first plane hit the north tower, the time the second plane hit the south tower, the time the south tower collapsed, the time the north tower collapsed.
For me, one of the worst moments happened very quickly, at 9:04 a.m. As I stood with dozens of people on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 20th Street, looking down at the burning north tower, a huge orange fireball billowed out from the buildings. I realized later on that the explosion came from the second plane hitting the south tower. I have never heard a crowd of people scream in genuine horror, but I heard it then. I moved carefully through them to the subway, and I noticed a woman crying uncontrollably.
The rest of the day passed in a fog. I wish I could say, as Ive heard some people claim, that I immediately realized the historic implications of what I was seeing. But the truth is that I was in shock, and that's not just a phrase. My partner -- my very dearest, beloved friend -- worked just a few blocks from the towers, and I couldn't get in touch with her.
Thanks to a complicated process that involved a relative in Tennessee acting as a go-between via phone, we finally figured out where to meet. She was at a co-worker's apartment. I had never been there myself, and on the way I thought I'd better stop and get the co-worker a hostess gift. So I walked around until I found a bakery that was open, and I bought a box of cookies. That's shock: You act strangely, but you think you're being perfectly normal.
My partner and I went uptown to get her car, and as we walked through the Columbia University campus, I saw a sign that said a prayer vigil would be held that night for Peace With Justice. I wanted to rip that sign down and kick in the door; I was finally taking in what had happened downtown.
Why couldnt the Peace-With-Justice people feel unadulterated compassion for those who had perished? Why did there have to be an unspoken implication that if only the United States had a foreign policy of justice that this wouldnt have happened? The next day I saw a car with a hand-painted banner that said REVENGE, and that was pretty much in keeping with my feelings.
On the way home, we listened to Mayor Rudy Giuliani on the radio, talking about the people who had died, and their families. We will suffer, he said. We will suffer more than we can bear. It was the truest thing I have ever heard a politician say.
Over the next weeks, as I saw mothers, fathers, daughters, sons and spouses putting up posters for the missing, crowding in front of the TV cameras to show pictures of the people they couldn't find, my heart was beyond broken. I couldn't bear to see that much sorrow and hope.
My partner was leaving her building when the debris from the falling tower started rolling down the street. She and her co-workers ran back into the building and, hours later, joined thousands on the walk north, through streets suffocating with dust and ashes. She cried once, several days after the attack. She still watches every program on 9/11 with the intensity of someone who is hearing about the event for the first time.
I calmed down a long time ago, and I no longer feel the rage I once did. I just don't want any terrorists on this earth. But the experience lingers in surprisingly strong ways for both of us. She looks up in fear every time she hears a plane in the sky. I wear sensible shoes and a pocketbook that straps across my body. I want to be able to run unimpeded if anything happens.
This act of war against the United States has so many implications -- military, personal, political, cultural, financial -- that it would take many books to cover and analyze it all. I can't even make a start in this essay, so I just want to list a few of the people I remember. May they all be at peace or recovered:
Jonathan Briley, a restaurant worker who jumped to his death. The picture of him, falling in a straight line, eyes closed, leg drawn up, was published only once because it was thought too disturbing.
The man who carried a wheelchair-bound co-worker down 68 flights of stairs. They survived.
The woman who jumped with her skirt pressed modestly at her sides; she wanted to die with dignity. She did.
Firefighter Bill Spade, who was trapped in the north tower but made it out alive. He has since retired from the Fire Department because of respiratory illness and now gives tours of Ground Zero as a volunteer with the nonprofit organization Tribute WTC .
Flight Attendant Amy Sweeney, who was aboard Flight 11, the plane that hit the north tower. She called her manager via cell phone and told him what was happeinng, moment by moment. She was trying to figure out where the plane was going when she spoke her last words: I see water and buildings.
The victims who called home without reaching anyone.
The victims who called home and stayed on the phone with their loved ones until the line went dead.
There's been a lot of talk about what's going to be built on Ground Zero. I stopped reading about it after a while, because it started to look like just another real-estate deal, with talk of big buildings and how many floors there will be and who will work there and how much leases will cost.
I would prefer that the entire area once occupied by the towers be turned into a memorial like the U.S.S. Arizona has been at Pearl Harbor. Nothing above ground level. The grid-like outer shells of the building under glass. A separate piece, also under glass, showing all the broken coffee mugs, memos, computers and while-you-were-out message slips people were using in the moments before they died. A high, airy chapel, perhaps open to the sky on good days, where people could come and sit amid light, silence and peace.
That's probably unrealistic, but I still think about it.
