Thinking of those who’ve been raised in the shadow of 9/11.
My first contact with a family member in the immediate hours following the events of the morning of 9/11 was my sister. She’d been up all night feeding my nephew, then less than three weeks old. She was crying. “Hormones and no sleep,” she said, “don’t mix well with tragedy.”
My buddy Paul was missing. She knew him as the kid who got stuck hanging out with me all through high school. A smart guy, a big guy. A handsome guy, a clever guy.
She didn’t know what to say.
“What do you mean missing? You mean you can’t get ahold of him?”
“I mean he worked in one of the towers.”
And then a…
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