Today marks the five-year anniversary of 9-11. I have no story of valor, courage or heroics, nor do I have a story of loss. Save for my friends who decided to leave New York City after the disaster, I didn’t lose anyone. My story is only one of witness—I was here that day and observed unimaginable events. I did not see the towers on fire except on TV screens, which I’m thankful for considering how shook up I was by just the aftermath alone. But I did see other things: I saw the huge black cloud filled with debris hover over downtown for several days, its presence filling the skyline where the towers once dominated; I saw the missing posters multiply by the thousands until almost every outdoor surface was shrouded with people’s desperate pleas; I saw while walking home from work that day, crowds of people somberly shuffling uptown, covered in dust, their faces shadowed in dazed disbelief at what they had escaped; I saw hundreds of gurneys and medics waiting outside of St. Vincent’s Hospital for the victims who never arrived; I saw strangers huddling in silent groups, trying to make sense of what was happening; I saw an armed-service population immediately sprout all over the city, waiting with huge guns for the next big disaster; and I saw a city forever changed, no longer living in naive bliss.
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