Memóriam

The price of a memory, is the memory of the sorrow it brings. Pittacus Lore

It is difficult to describe the emotions which flooded through me when, breathless and reminiscent, I entered the 9/11 memorial. One can read about it. One can look at the pictures of people who have been there. One cannot, however, come close to imagining the ways in which such a place will affect them.

I was 13 years old on September 11th, 2001. I watched, with the rest of the nation, as sadness turned into horror with the realization that Flight 11’s collision with the North tower was not an accident. The images of flight 175’s final moments have been etched into my memory, as are the thousands of seconds which followed. Flight 77. Flight 93. The Falling Man. The chaos on the streets as the towers fell, and the inspiring photos of the aftermath, when three firemen raised the American flag in the midst of the rubble.

These are images which still stop me in my tracks, 12 years later, and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

Immediately after I booked our flights to New York, I reserved our places at the memorial. Paying my respects to the 2,977 individuals who lost their lives was my top priority… so much closer to my heart than the miles of concrete, historical statues, and famous skyline of which the twin towers are no longer a part.

When Forrest and I arrived at the memorial ahead of our scheduled time, we decided to familiarize ourselves with the surrounding area and entered St. Paul’s Chapel. Now more famously known as the church near ground zero, St. Paul’s used to sit in the shadows of the World Trade Center. Today, it is bathed in sunlight. On the days and months following September 11th, the church was transformed into a sanctuary for rescue workers and volunteers, and was the location where family members and friends of the victims posted flyers for information on their loved ones. The church has continued to display these desperate pleas in memóriam.

We spent a very quiet half hour inside the church before returning to the memorial. Gazing up at WTC 1, or the Freedom Tower, we followed a line of people to the entrance. While the memorial is complete, the streets around it are wrapped in fences and tarp, as the rebuilding of the World Trade Center is still underway. The Freedom Tower, climbing to a height of 1,776 feet, stands to the side of the memorial pools, where WTC 6 used to stand. It acts both as a reminder of the tragedy, and as a guardian of the names the memorial pays tribute to.

Entering the memorial, we passed the Survivor Tree, a callery pear tree which was recovered from the wreckage a month after the attacks. When it was found, the tree was reduced to a burned and blackened stump with a single living branch. The tree was uprooted and nursed back to health before being replanted at the memorial.

The memorial contains two cascading pools in the original foundations of the North and South towers. The pools are lined with bronze tablets, upon which the names of every 9/11 victim have been inscribed, along with the names of the individuals who were killed in the 1993 basement bombings of the North tower. My fingers lightly touched the names as I slowly walked the perimeter, eventually stopping to weep at the edge of the South pool with one hand over the name of Constantine Economos, who was 41 years old at the time of the attack, and the other dipped in the cool waters of the pool.

Further along the tablets, an individual dressed in black stopped to place an American flag and a note to their loved one: Michelle Goldstein. The top of the note simply read, “My Dearest Michelle…” She had been married for seven months when she was killed, at 31 years old.

Words cannot describe the haunting beauty of the memorial. I cannot imagine a more touching or peaceful tribute to the 2,977 individuals who lost their lives to the hands of terrorism.

I was 13 years old on September 11th, 2001.

I remember. I always will.