I’ve been thinking for weeks about 9/11. Like most Americans, memories of that day invoke deep emotions. I wrote a short, short piece based on accounts of that dreadful morning.
At the 34th floor, firefighters with set eyes carry axes and oxygen tanks up the stairwell. “Keep moving ma’am,” one of them says as I inch downward. Carl has said the opposite. “We’re all clear to return to the office,” he nods and my coworkers retrace their steps to the door marked 76. The instinct that drives me onto the crowded sidewalk, makes me look back at this cathedral to commerce. I weep as flames lick at its glass frame and it belches gigantic plumes of smoke, ragged pieces of paper and human souls from its gaping heart.