Twenty years ago today, I was in our offices in midtown Manhattan. I hesitate to write about my memories of that day, for my story is unremarkable when compared to those who lived and died, loved and lost. My story is of someone on the periphery – who wandered through the city in a state of horror and disbelief, too stunned to cry.
I remember the smell; this massive cloud of ash and dirt consuming the bluest of skies. People hugging each other as they walked to the bridges that would take them closer to their homes. And those who just wandered, unsure where their feet would take them, each step once so assumed, now tentative and aimless. Sirens and silence, silence and sirens.
A woman’s hysterical efforts to reach her daughter at One World Trade, and the way she collapsed when she finally heard her voice. The plans being put in place for me to travel to each of our offices (each one in a building that was considered high risk for future attacks). Retrospectively it seems bizarre that I flew across the US and Europe – a nod to our need to comfort and console. It was part of our firm’s culture back then. And in each city, the empty streets, the unspoken anxiety, the fear and the personalization of loss too large to really comprehend. My son called me when I was in LA – he enlisted. I stopped breathing until he came home. He came home.
(I remember watching the members of the Senate holding hands and singing on the steps of the Capitol. We are terrific when our foes are outside our borders; we can’t seem to get a collective grip when handling our internal threats. We are so reckless with our hubris – damn).
I didn’t lose anyone I knew on September 11th and all those tragic stories are not mine to tell. So many heroes, so many lives, so many loves – and I still listen with a humble reverence as the bell tolls. And I’m embarrassed that I felt like writing all this down.
Haruki Murakami wrote that “Memories warm you up on the inside. But they also tear you apart.”
Waiting for the Karma Truck 
Beautifully written, Mimi. There should be no embarrassment in feeling the need to write this down, I say.
Thank you!!💕
💕
❤
Embarrassed. Oh no. Mimi, you’ve touched the very heart of this remembering:
‘loved and lost’
‘too stunned to cry’
‘the way she collapsed when she finally heard her voice’
‘ I stopped breathing until he came home. He came home’
‘I still listen with a humble reverence’
Thank you for this precious reflection – a gift of words that are always so very much more than words when they come from you.
Hugs and heart for all who need heart and hugs. And special hugs and heart for you. 🤗💕
Sending you love and gratitude my dear friend – thank you for your generous understanding…xoxox
Beautiful Mimi…as always…xo
Xoxo…I hope you’re well!!
I am and I pray you are as well! xoxo
Sending you a big hug.
Moved. Thank you for sharing Mimi.
Mimi, that is so lovely a remembrance. I was working from home on that morning, up in my attic. Prisca had just come to the U.S. just 3 weeks before, and she was downstairs watching TV when she called me to come down, and we watched the second plane hit the second tower. All our lives have changed, as they do with any worldwide event like the pandemic. But you are right focus on how we all came together after that day in September, and how thousands upon thousands of Americans and those all around the world engaged in small acts of kindness for others.
Would that we could just commit to kindness a part of our regular daily activities…I can’t believe Prisca had only been here three weeks!!
Embarrassment is if you didn’t remember. Beautifully, poignantly written. Another “never forget” moment. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, your memories and your heart.
So touching and real. Thank you for sharing here 🙏💕🙏
To be genuine, one does not need the personal scars brought about direct contact with an event. Thanks for sharing and being genuine. Good to hear from you, Mimi.
You’re right of course, Ray – thank you…
Ahhh, honey, embarrassment is the last thing I would be feeling. This is such an eloquent elegy to those loved and lost that day and to those that lived on and paid homage in their own ways, whether by serving and protecting (thank you, Matt), by offering succor, or by standing witness, as you have done here. Love you, sweet friend….
Love you right back sweetheart…such a profound moment in time (bookended as you know, by my dad’s passing right before Matt left for Baghdad and my mom’s passing the day he returned…)xoxo
Yes…a series of body blows, to be sure… xoxxo
A bloody good post
Thank you!
Love this…hope you, Andy and the kids are doing well.
Wendy Watson
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So good to hear from you! We’re all doing well – I hope you, John and the boys are too…