Remember, " I Love You Always"

                             
                                    Remember- I Love You Always!

Saturday, September 29th, 2009 – 9:30am Lower Manhattan, New York City.

The subway screeches to a halt and then echoing silence.  It is the end of the line for “Train A”. The doors of the subway car open. As I enter into the abyss I am surrounded by drab prison grey.  There are large chunks of plaster missing from the enormous cement pillars which holds up the vast space. There are endless cracks in the ceiling and walls.  When my eyes close to imagine that horrible day, I am overcome by the deafening sound of whispers and sniffing of quiet tears from others in this abyss. These sounds are masked by the beating of my heart so loud that the pictures could have been missed – children’s pictures. The pictures pasted over the cracks to keep the walls from crumbling; pictures of innocence as they should be when painted by children but are not as they are. They are Picasso like abstracts telling their stories. Stories not of wishes and dreams but of fears, loss and hope - pulling at my heart strings and conscience until I break the barrier of resolve and finally tears well up from deep inside and I join the people sharing my experience.
         
The bright sunlight from beyond catches my eye and through my tears I see the cross shaped pillar standing lonely in the rubble. The symbolism catches my breath.  The smell of smoke rises in your mind, the dust in your nose constricts your oxygen and you are instantly transformed to the day the world changed forever. Looking through the chain link fence surrounding what seemed like an ordinary construction site, my mind fell back to the day that brought me here – September 11, 2001. The day that changed the lives of thousands, millions, and the day I lost my parents – my family changed forever.
That fateful morning I awoke to the news of 2 planes crashing into the World Trade Centers in New York City. For many this was an arm’s length tragedy if not a continent away tragedy or world’s away tragedy. For me, though I was there from the minute the west heard the news.

My parents went to NYC to purchase their CBS station franchise at 9am EST in one of the World Trade Center buildings on September 11, 2001.  So as I watched the buildings fall without resistance, I felt my parents fall through my grasp. Being the oldest I wondered what the next step was for me to do. Do I hope? Do I cry? Do I pray? Large company switchboards organize their circuits better than the thoughts running havoc through my mind.

Pessimism is not my strong suite, but you would have to agree the pictures and stories, of that day, left little to the imagination that my parents could have survived the devastation of those buildings.  It would take a miracle and life doesn’t hand out many of those.

After coming out of the daze that had transcended me, I started making my calls to my parent’s lawyers, assistants – anyone that could clarify their final hours. The need to know what I had to do and what my role was in their search and /or final recovery was ever increasing. What could I do for my family and the families of those accompanying my parents? It was so painful but numbness had dulled the true measure of pain.

My eyes kept wondering back to the news events on the TV, and I felt the emptiness, confusion and sorrow of so many other victims – people without names but which I felt a sisterhood to. This was going to be a very big family to belong to once the rubbles settled and the smoke cleared.  This thought weighed deep in my soul and heavy on my shoulders.

I was having a difficult time reaching my parents’ assistant so I decided to call their home in California. Each ring rang forever it seemed and echoed endless down the lines. Each ring seemed hollow and empty.

After what seemed like 30 years, an answer. I cleared my voice of tears and emotion and prepared to ask my parents’ assistant what to do and how to help. Before I could pull myself together enough to enunciate a proper greeting; my mother’s voice appeared at the other end of the earpiece. There was silence on my end – too long to measure but long enough to bring irritation to my mother’s voice demanding who was there. Then in a raised and agitated voice I called to my mom as child once lost now found,

“Mom, what are you doing at home?” I asked stupidly. What was she was doing there- there on the other end of the phone, in California- instead of in amongst the rubble of “Ground Zero.” My babbling confused her even more and she readied herself to hang up and announced we would talk later when I made more sense. She had positively no idea what I could be talking about.

Thinking back to my reaction to hearing my mom’s voice it now seems silly and ridiculous, even childish – but that is the power of hindsight.  All I know is the relief, the happiness and the mixture of sorrow I felt in that moment. My parents, as it turned out decided to leave New York City the night before because their pilot didn’t like the severe weather patterns that were approaching the continent during their trip home.  So my parents and CBS signed on the dotted line at 10pm September 10, 2001 and they were home in bed asleep before the first plane hit the towers.

In those 3 hours of the morning of September 11, 2001 I felt what thousands, millions felt and felt camaraderie with each and every one of them.  Although my story has a happy ending, I will never forget my feelings that morning - even 5 years later while I stand here mesmerized outside of the gaping whole of “Ground Zero”.
That fateful morning when I finally recovered my voice from the shock, all I could say was,” Good Morning mom, turn on the TV and remember – I love you always!”