What do you call the day you saw men and women jump to their death?
The day you thought your son was missing?
The day you waited for the phone to ring for hours, anxious to hear his voice?
The day the flags suddenly went to half mast all over your neighborhood?
The day you began to see the somber faces in the train?
The photos with "missing" everywhere?
The day you were told your dear friend Alex was "one of them"?
The day you began to get invited to so many funerals, you could not even keep count?
I was at Ground Zero a week after that day.
What do you call the smoke, the remnants of the towers, so high that you had to crane your neck to see them in their totality -- or what was left?
What do you call the strong and unrecognizable odor?
The dust you walked on as if you were walking on the unspeakable?
What do you call the bravery of the rescuers, the kindness of strangers, the coming together of a city as big as New York?
What do you say to the mother whose son was not found?
To the daughter who never met her dad?
To the young wife waiting for her husband?
What do you call the day when everything stopped and there was only New York?