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It's been 25 years since the events of September 11 forever changed our lives. Like other major events, those of us old enough to remember also remember where we were and what we were doing when it happened.
For me, it was a normal day that started with a four-mile walk at sunrise, followed by a shower to wash the sweat off my body. With hair still wrapped in a towel, I flipped on the television and saw the first tower on fire. As I watched and wondered what was going on, I witnessed the second plane hit. I sat down in astonishment, staring at what I just saw, trying to make sense of it. There was no sense to make of it. Less than an hour later, the last thing any of us expected to see was the towers fall.
Details followed slowly. We heard of the crashes at the Pentagon and in a field in Pennsylvania. Air traffic stopped. We were living in St. Petersburg and knew the President was in Sarasota for a photo op and wondered if our area might be a target, too. Everyone's emotions ran high, and it was hard to hold it together throughout the day.
I spoke with my mother later that day, and she was having a particularly difficult time dealing with the events. She worked for Raymond James Financial at the time, and although they did not maintain an office in the towers, a financial company my mother had constant contact with was in the tower. She tried calling when the event happened and was unable to connect. She thought of the woman who was her in the office and the conversations they'd had over the years. Mom considered her a friend, and the feeling was mutual.
For more than two weeks, Mom searched for information on the company and the workers. The news was not helpful or hopeful. Mom became despondent, thinking of the apparent loss of her friend and colleague. Things changed during the third week.
I remember Mom calling me, very excited to share her news. She finally heard from her friend who worked in the towers! The story of her survival stays with me.
In the weeks leading up to the terrorist attack, the company this woman worked for moved its offices from above the 78th floor to a lower floor. When the plane struck, she and a coworker knew immediately that something was very wrong. They grabbed their purses and jackets and went to the nearest stairwell.
On their way down, they were met with advice to return to their office and wait for more information. The two coworkers looked at each other and continued down the stairs. As they exited the tower, the second plane hit. At that point, the women removed their heels and ran in their stocking feet as fast and as far as they could go.
Public transit stopped. Cell phones were not as big a thing in 2001 as they are now, so my mother's friend ended up walking many miles before she was able to connect with her own family to let them know she was ok. With bloody feet and in shock, she was finally able to find her way home.
The company she worked for set up temporary offices a couple of weeks later, and as soon as those connections were restored, she called my mother at Raymond James. Mom was not expecting to hear her friend's voice, and she immediately started crying tears of joy as she learned of the harrowing experience. Mom's friend was convinced that if she and her coworker had listened to the advice to return to their office, they would have been among the dead that day.
As for me and my family, we visited the Twin Towers for the first time in August 2001. We arrived via the PATH train from Hoboken, NJ. Despite growing up in the shadow of Manhattan (about 15 miles as the crow flies), I never visited the World Trade Center when I lived in New Jersey. We didn't go to the top but spent time at the shopping mall in the basement and explored the main floor. We had a hearty lunch at a local deli one block away. Everyone was so friendly!
Watching the aftermath through the glow of a TV screen in the safety of my home, my thoughts turned to all the people we met that day, and how many of them were no longer with us. Even the deli a block away seemed to be nothing more than rubble.
My family's experience pales in comparison to those of the victims, survivors, and first responders. Our hearts still break, and as a nation, I believe we are still healing. I know we will never be the same. This is one anniversary I wish there was no need to commemorate. Twenty-five years is a long time, but it is also the blink of an eye.