911. My Memory. We all have one.

I went this morning to the sea to send my tears and thoughts to those lost all those years ago, as I do every year. And, I post here again, my story, because we all have one and remembering it is so important to what happened and remembering what it took from us and what it changed in us.

It’s 9/11 again, and that day twenty-two years ago returns as clear as that crisp blue sky and brilliant orange ball of flame. My New York story is not the same as anyone else, but it’s not that different either. The clarity of it always surprises me, and I encourage myself to remember it in detail every year on its anniversary as if my memories give them all life once more, even if for just a moment.

It was Election Day, and I was driving out to the Hamptons to work on a campaign for a friend. I had just crossed the Triborough Bridge and was heading down the expressway toward the Long Island Expressway on the phone with the candidate. The towers were a mile south. I saw the first plane approaching, and aside from its low altitude nowhere near the airport, what struck me was how fast it was going. Planes land at 160 miles an hour, and this plane was going 500 miles an hour. Then there was the ball of fire. “A plane just went into the towers and a huge ball of flame just shot out of it. I have to go.”

Traffic stopped. We all got out of our cars and watched the smoke pour out. No one said a word but about ten of us stood together near the railing on the side of the road. There was nowhere to go and nothing to say to strangers all trying to clear their minds of this unthinkable reality playing out before us. Then the other plane arrived. It came from another direction and it was higher than the other plane. It sort of dove into the second tower. I think someone screamed. It might have been me. We were all hugging then, and I don’t remember when we started the huddle.

Then the fighter pilots arrived, which in some strange way was the most confusing part. A man next to me said, “We are being invaded.” “By who,” I replied. “Canada?” We watched them circle the city and we still were without any commentary other than our own thoughts and fears. My first thought was getting back to the city to get to Sarah.

Then the impossible. The first tower, shrouded with smoke, quietly, slowly slid to the ground and a few minutes later, the second. We all cried together. Not sobs, but silent tears that we didn’t want to wipe off our faces because they were marking the moment on our cheeks and our souls at the same time. It seemed unnatural to wipe them away.

Someone turned up the radio on their car and we all heard the commentary. I think it was Howard Stern. Then a police car came down the side of the road half on the highway and half on the walkway. He said we had to drive, they needed to clear the roads for the rescue cars. I never got any of their names - my compatriots - those ten or so people who shared the most momentous moment of my life.

I want to see them on this day, this anniversary of the death of American safety. We never exchanged names. There was no time and no thought of it in the moment.

A few days later, when they were still trying to find survivors, it was pouring rain, and I was walking my daughter to school on my way to an appointment. She has her own 9/11 story. I can’t speak to her story because it’s hers, and the one thing about that day is that each and every family member, friend and New York neighbor has their own story, different and similar to mine.

I commented on the fact that the rain was going to hinder the rescue. We were both silent because we knew that there was nothing to rescue. I’m not sure when we started to speak that sentiment aloud. No one survived when the towers fell.

But here is the thing. I’m so grateful to be a New Yorker and have my own story that day. I wear my story each day on this anniversary as a monument to those who went down with the towers that clear, crisp day. I take it to the beach with me each day on this date and somehow it’s a comfort.