2,753.

I’ve been writing and writing. And deleting.

It’s hard for me to know what to say.

I have my memories of the day.

But they’re mine. And what I’ve realized is that I don’t need to add my voice to the chaos. You don’t need me to do that. They don’t.

Instead, I’ll add my prayers, and just ask you to do the same.

10 years.

Standing around the radio and confusion and curiosity.

Trinity Church and the wings turning and a minute of utter silence and screaming.

Arguing over whether or not we should take our laptops.

My serviceless cell phone and inappropriate, survivalistic laughter.

Carrie’s voice and Jeff’s and my father’s.

Battery Park and Amy’s tree and running towards the end of land and losing Erin and losing sight.

Dust.

Praying and the 1/9 station and walking across the bridge and Sharla’s swollen fingers.

A startlingly half-blue-half-black sky and seeing the Statue of Liberty in between the two. 

The guy, but not his name, who was by himself and ended up with our group for the rest of the day.

The Hasidic Jews with the water and the man who put too many of us in his car in Brooklyn.

Pete’s apartment and his clean tee shirt to replace my filthy black sweater and listening to the president.

Wanting to be home.

The Hoboken station triage center, around 1am, empty of people to treat. 

My voice mails and my cats and my bed.

September 12 and beginning the task of moving on.