I lived 20 blocks from WTC. You could see ithe North Tower from my building. That day, BF and I were away on vacation. My kitties were home alone, being taken care of by a neighbor.

My neighbor's friends lived at Battery Park City, and weren't allowed into their home because of the all of downtown below Canal St was closed, so we let them stay in our apartment while we were gone. It was the time you opened your doors to strangers, no questions asked. The need to do ANYTHING to help was foremost in everyone's mind. That's the one good thing that I remember from this, we all came together in a way that made you proud to be a New Yorker.

Sadness shrouded the city. The hardest thing for me to see was the funeral progressions for the firefighters, which seemed to happen every day for months, always with the firetruck decorated in purple and black, with bagpipes playing the mournful songs.

The missing person fliers were everywhere, on every surface they could be taped, smiling beautiful faces, which slowly washed away until the pictures were ghostly streaks of abstract color. I wanted those gone so much. It was hard to look at them knowing there was no hope these people were alive, knowing how much they were being missed. It just hurt to see them. I felt like I had been rubbed raw by the grief which permeated everything.

I left the city the following year. It was time to find a new place without the history this one held for me.