9/11 - Eight years later, a remembrance

Eight years ago already? It's hard to believe it's been that long. That Tuesday was one never to be forgotten, especially to those of us living in and around NYC. At first, it was an unknown novelty, Ali coming downstairs at our place and saying "A plane just hit the World Trade Center!" My reaction? "Wow, no shit, that's kinda neat", thinking one of the many tourist planes had mistakenly veered far off track. Still not the most compassionate of reactions, I know, but hey, it's just another odd occurrence in the world's most interesting city, right? Yea, we had no idea...

Ali and I turned on the TV about 2 minutes before the 2nd plane hit. One look at the fire from the first impact, and my novelty idea was quickly subdued. Something bad had happened. We saw the 2nd impact live on TV, about 2 miles away as the crow flies from our living room in Hoboken. The talking heads on Channel 2 were still debating the first incident - was it a plane, a bomb, a helicopter, etc... when everyone saw what happened next. A 767 loaded with innocent people and combustible jet fuel barreled into the South Tower. Innocence vanished. A feeling on safety was gone, replaced by an all-too-real sense of vulnerability. Lives were lost... luckily, no one I knew well, but many friends would not be able to say the same when they woke up Wednesday.

Somehow, I got a call out to my Dad letting him know I was OK (riding my bike over to my office in Jersey City, watching the towers burn the entire way) and Jody got a call into Ali, probably the only two we were able to make before sundown. Jody's was the call that broke the news of the 4th crash to us, which hit nearly as close to home - Shanksville, where his parents' lakefront cabin was located, a quiet town of 245 permanent residents in the hills of southwestern PA, was the final resting place of the heros of Flight 93. At that moment, nothing seemed safe.

In the hours and days and weeks to come, the gravity of the attacks sunk into you, something you couldn't just scrub off in the shower. Everyone I knew in the area was affected. Ali and I made a list of those we knew that may have been in the WTC area, and started walking around Hoboken ringing door bells. Somehow, we crossed almost every name off the list in just two mile-long laps around the town; guys I worked with like Posty and Tony just happened to drive by us, or someone she knew we ran into at the park, watching what was now a solo tower burn, and that person had talked to another one, who knew that these other people were safe, and so on. The stories started to come out as those closest to the towers began to return to Hoboken, dust covering their suits, a dazed, rattled look on their face, unsure of what the hell just happened and just how close they'd been to the afterlife.

One of my best friends - Ninja - finally made it home, with a heartwrenching story of helping a fire fighter try and locate his mother amidst the panic in the area that is now known as Ground Zero. Another good friend - Lori - I had convinced to take the WTC train in from Hoboken that morning, rather than try and drive to her meeting on Wall St. from Fort Lee. She *should* have been well clear of the Trade Centers before her 8:30 meeting, but I didn't know until Ali and I pit-stopped at 90 Grand between laps, and she (and a coworker) popped out of our living room, startling the shit out of us. Never have been happier to have my heart nearly stop. In retrospect, my occasional laziness may have saved me, since I was going to head over on the WTC train with her to do some quick Christmas shopping for my Dad that morning, and would have been in the building across the street when the planes hit. Thank God I valued some extra sleep over a $20 Century 21 gift card that was about to expire.

Hoboken lost more people to 9/11 than anywhere else, save NYC. Something changed that day to our little yuppie bar town. Fliers for missing Marsh McLennan employees were posted on lightpoles. A makeshift memorial at the tip of Sinatra Pier appeared, with an empty Financial District skyline in the background. Cars collected tickets until someone put 2 and 2 together. Ruins smoldered, and trucks carted away 220 stories of more than just metal. Friends gathered, watching the coverage. Mark and I went to Manhattan the next day to try and do something - anything - to help. There was nothing to be done. The Red Cross blood donation line was 3 hours long, and, as it turns out, fairly useless to those directly impacted the day before. Ambulances lined the West Side Highway, waiting in vain for survivors to be miraculously pulled from the wreckage. The city was eerily quiet, like someone had taken the hustle and bustle and madness and transplanted it to a location far, far away. There were almost no cars in the streets, and nearly everyone who passed by had the same solemn look.

The feeling of helplessness was pervasive - indeed, if there was one word to describe that entire experience, it would be helpless. Helpless to stop the attacks, helpless to keep the Towers upright, helpless to rescue those that clung to the outside of the Tower, ninety stories above the ground but only a few dozen feet over a roaring, impassible inferno. We tried to get to Manhattan on Tuesday, to do *something*, but by the time they opened up limited train and ferry service on Wednesday, the only thing left to do was pray.

Eight years later, we are still praying, for the lives of those we lost that day, for the brave men and women from the FDNY and the NYPD, for those whose lives still go on with a daily reminder that a loved one isn't coming home again tonight, for nearly the 3,000th time in a row. For all of those, and for the millions of lives that have been affected in the 9/11 aftermath, we continue to pray, for you, for the ones you love, and for a better world, so that something good might silver line this date for years to come.