It was unusual for me not to post an essay on the 23rd Anniversary of September 11, 2001.
I decided, after always having someone make a snarky remark of how I should just let it go, to do exactly that. At least in print.
A week afterwards, I walked by our neighborhood firehouse that lost a whole shift that day, the faces of the men framed reverently in front of the station. ![]()
Flowers in tribute that had been left in front remained, their petals trying to hold on just a little longer.
As I stood and reflected, a fireman came out of the side door. We exchanged polite hellos as he stood for a moment alongside me.
“I’ll bet you’re too young to remember that day,” I said, without thinking.
“Yeah, I was young,” he said, “but no, I remember. I was 23 working in Brooklyn all set to start my shift. My whole family are, well were, firefighters.”
I saw at once how his demeanor changed, as if a cloud had passed over, me so wishing I hadn’t said what I did.
“Did you lose someone that day?” I asked gently.
He pushed back the cuff of his jacket showing me a silver bracelet with a name on it.
“My brother Stephen was in the first Tower when it came down. It was his first week on the job. He had just turned 19.”
Without pause, I put my arm around his shoulder, he in turn around mine.
There we stood amid the petals, in remembrance of Stephen, and all who were lost that unforgettable day, hearts joined.
