September 11, 2001 was a beautiful, cloudless day in New York. We went back to our home on Long Island, so we weren't in Manhattan when the attack happened. Jack and I stood depressed and terrified, watching the morning news and seeing the towers burning and collapsing. We saw our little cabin in Battery Park City, dilapidated and completely obscured by black smoke.
When Manhattan reopened after a few weeks, we returned to our little apartment. The air in the city was almost indescribable. There was not only the overwhelming smell of death, but also smoke, plastic, paper, and God knows what else. People walked with their heads down, each wearing either a mask or a handkerchief covering his face. People walked and cried. We have had to overcome many obstacles since traffic was restored. The streets were full of out-of-town Red Cross volunteers. The rescuers put down the food and washed our hands with water. People walked like zombies, unable to cuddle or comprehend what happened to our town. Buses ran for free, taking people wherever they wanted. Volunteers came handing out fruit and water. Most people sat quietly in their homes or sobbed softly.
When we finally got into our building we entered and were greeted by the caretaker. He was usually composed, but not this time. He grabbed Jack and me and started crying. "My God, I thought you both died. The five people who lived here died in the crash. I'm so happy to see you ..." We all hugged.
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