We were supposed to be in the office that day. Students were just beginning and as coaches/consultants we couldn’t really go in to schools.
It was a glorious morning and I was running late. Too late to take the 1 train and make it to 116th by 9. So I walked to 23rd street and hailed a cab. The cabbie sped to 12th avenue (back when you could speed in the city). At the light, before turning on to the West Side highway, I turned to take a look at the twin towers, a tradition I had since…I had always.
As we turned, time slowed down. I saw something dark go straight into one of the towers. It was 8:45 am.
Everything after that is a blur. I remember getting to 1270 and opening the door and there standing was Laura. She asked me if I had heard what had happened. we all stood transfixed around the “table that saved NY.”
I don’t think anyone moved until much later. As the horror mounted. As the fear increased. Then it was a flurry of activity: Bill and others going online (we still had an internet connection) to a variety of sites. Others making arrangements to see if we could get to our homes or making plans to sleep in the office.
I couldn’t have been in a better place, with friends, feeling safe (as much as we could that day); lucky that I didn’t lose anyone, though most of us agree that it didn’t feel that way.
It doesn’t feel that way.
Eight years on, I still feel anxious at planes that fly low.
Eight years on I feel that gaping hole.
Eight years on.