I was at school when it happened. Just a regular second grade class in our quiet Western New York town; we were learning multiplication, I think. It was another ordinary day until my mother showed up outside the classroom.
“It’s okay, Philip, Uncle Willie is fine,” she said, almost out of breath. My older sister trailed behind. “It’s gonna be okay. I love you.” She pulled me in and hugged me close.
I was confused as hell. Uncle Willie lived in the faraway land of Long Island, I only remembered him vaguely from the few family trips there years before. “Uncle Willie? What do you mean?”
My father came home from work early. The four of us sat in silence, staring helplessly at the television, watching black smoke billow from the World Trade Center.
—
Even in the bustling Financial District, the city keeps quiet at the Memorial. Two gaping holes, thousands of names. Sarah and I pass our tickets at the counter and enter the Memorial and Museum, shedding our coats and warming up from the brisk January cold.
It’s even quieter inside. A lump grows in my throat as we see the sheared rebar, the crumbled concrete. Sarah reads the signs sprinkled around the exhibits, but I can’t look. We walk down a flight of steps that survived among the wreckage—walked a million times before by three thousand lost souls.
As Sarah heads off to the bathroom, I wait by the fire truck that’s missing its front half.
—
ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS—the only four channels that our TV could tune into—were locked on the scene. I don’t remember what the reporters said. I’ll never forget the replays of a Boeing 767 colliding with the south tower. I’ll never forget the collapse. I’ll never forget the ash and dust cloud that hung in the air for weeks. I remember wondering if it would ever stop burning.
—
The last exhibit is the media room: news reports, videos, all coverage of that fateful day. It’s a closed room with two doors on either end, several jutting wall sections and TVs mounted along the way. As soon as we step inside, I feel a pit in my stomach.
A quarter of the way through, I see a clip of Matt Lauer that triggers something inside. “I don’t feel good, can we get out of here?” I whisper in Sarah’s ear and she nods. I take her hand and walk as fast as I can through the rest, but the labyrinth never ends. I feel my face getting hot and hurry faster, mumbling “excuse me’s” and keeping my head down. The TV’s blur into one droning buzz. I fumble at the door and finally we escape.
—
September 12th had the bluest sky. No clouds, not even birds. George W. Bush had declared all flights to be grounded, so the usual chemtrails were missing, too. My mom took pictures.
—
I catch my breath on a bench outside the exhibit and Sarah sits with me for a while.
September eleventh, two thousand and one. Nine Eleven. Even now, fourteen years later, those two numbers strike a chord in me. A minor key, in odd time. Somber, strange. Feels distant but still hits close to home.
horrified looks 