Twenty-five years ago this morning I turned on the local news channel to get the weather report.
Twenty-five years ago this morning my assistant called me at home to tell me he would be late for work. Something was going on at the World Trade Center, where his mom works.
Twenty-five years ago this morning my boss came to the door of my office, where I didn’t have a radio or television on, and told me I can go home.
Twenty-five years ago this morning my ten-minute walk home felt longer. There were plenty of people, but no sound.
Twenty-five years ago I spent a large part of the day sitting on my bed, crying.
Twenty-five years ago my former co-worker Margaret, who lived outside of New York City, called me. “Go to Grand Central Station, take the train to [whatever stop], and I’ll pick you up. You can stay here as long as you need to.” I declined her offer.
Twenty-five years ago my brother, with whom I seldom speak, called me from Pennsylvania, where his in-laws were living. “Go to Penn Station, take the train to [whatever stop], and I’ll pick you up. You can stay here.” I declined his offer.
Manhattan was my home. I love(d) the city so much and didn’t want to leave it. (It took a too-good-to-resist job offer two years later to get me to go.)
Twenty-five years later I’m choking up while I write this.
I ♥NY.
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