It’s the anniversary of that horrid day, and that’s prompting me to dredge up my own awful memories of it.
People feverishly running down the streets to get away from the horror, and to somehow get to their homes, even if it meant traipsing by foot over the bridge.
The air thick with billowing smoke from the destroyed buildings and charred bodies. It reeked as it kept traveling uptown, a hideous reminder of what we’d been hit with, and it didn’t go away for weeks.
A stunned reaction, which quickly gave way to warmth and openness. We’d all been subjected to the same tragedy, so suddenly New Yorkers reached out to each other on the street, started conversations, and built connections.
I also remember being horrified that my lifestyle had been interrupted, but by time I went to lunch and listened to the waiter saying the specials of the day through a surgical mask, I knew things had been very seriously overturned.