I was there.

A street of history, paved with pulverized steel, squeezed nerves, empty shoulders.

I walked the New York street that lunch hour; my feet not touching the ground; my breath etched in my mouth; my heart scouring the face of my friend, whom I walked by in the office hallway a minute ago, whose face temperature was zero. Later, I found out his son worked in Tower One. His son hadn't made it in that morning, by the fortune of life.

I was 40 blocks away; maybe six minutes by subway. I remember at lunch hour the gaping hole in the sky, filtering orange haze where a shadow should have been.

It was my first day back in New York City, the city I hate to love but do -- graffiti, rickety railcars and taxis speaking honks.

By departure time at 5:00, the apocalypse movie set on the streets of New York had bared themselves of its uncountable people, with maybe three or four late walkers like me heading to the single station remaining open, Grand Central, with outbound trains only.

I didn't process it.

I lived it through.

In the airport on the way home ten days later, I purchased a refrigerator magnet with a carved relief, painted brightly, of the Twin Towers.


​9:53 am, Friday, September 11, 2026.