9/11

September 11th 2001. It is a date steeped in the memory of all Americans like myself. A horrible date, a tragic date but nonetheless, a memorable date. My girlfriend Sylvia? That date was our final date. That was the date when I was going to propose. But who could have seen what was going to happen? I couldn’t, millions of Americans couldn’t. But, most of all, the world couldn’t predict the earth-shattering event which claimed the lives of over 3,000 people.

It was a beautiful autumn morning. The birds sang their favourite tunes outside the kitchen window. The gentle breeze caressed the leaves of the many trees in our garden. Yes, this was American suburbia. This particular morning was made all the more beautiful by my girlfriend of 2 years, Sylvia. The sun reflected perfectly on her light brown hair, her blue eyes lit up the room like stars. It was a sight that I loved waking up to every morning. I know that people say it is tough to find the one, but I was adamant: I had definitely found ‘the one’. Sylvia’s presence made getting up at 7:00a.m a whole lot easier. It was like a set routine. But who knew that this suburban routine could be interrupted so devastatingly?

I was on my way to work in my 2000 BMW 3-Series. Sylvia was on her way to work in the subway. I was the owner of a department store, she was an office receptionist in the World Trade Center. For some reason, traffic was awful. I know that rush hour can be bad, but this was another level. The line of traffic seemed to stretch the length of the Great Wall of China. After waiting patiently and lip synching to many Bon Jovi songs, I reached my destination. Considering the success of my department store Macy’s, work was very quiet. I greeted the few customers, seeing if they were satisfied with our products. Predictably, they loved our products. I was good at this. After hearing exactly what I had wanted to hear, I strolled into my office, cup of espresso in one hand and the New York Times in the other. I turned on the TV, but I wish I never had.

Plastered across the CBS News channel, all I could see was “Plane Crashes into North Tower”. I immediately knew what they were talking about. My girlfriend worked in the South Tower. I hurriedly took out my cell phone and called Sylvia. Was all of this really happening? Luckily, she picked up. “Ethan, I’m okay!!” Those words provided me with some temporary relief. “Get out of the building, who knows what’s gonna happen next?!” “Yeah I’m running down the stairs. I’ll call you when I’m outside. Love you”. Those were the last words I would hear.
I put down the phone and ran out to the shop floor. All of my employees were glued to the TV screen. I could tell how much these events affected everyone. My right-hand man Alan was visibly shaken. A tear trickled down his right cheek, splashing on the white marble floor. “I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this”, he mumbled to me. Alan’s son was a stockbroker in the South Tower. I felt his pain. Suddenly, a wave of screams confronted my ears, almost deafening me. A plane had hit the South Tower. Nothing else mattered. Without Sylvia, I would be lost. I took the small brown case out of my jacket pocket. I delicately opened the case, a bright diamond ring blinding me. This was meant to be the day, the day that I proposed. It started so promisingly, but my god it went downhill so fast. I took out my phone, about to dial the digits of Sylvia’s phone. My eyes started to well up. They were stinging with the tears, stinging with the pain. Alan came over to me. “It was my son’s last day in New York. Richard was going to be flying out to California tomorrow.” We stood side by side, crying together, wondering what had happened.

It was now September 12th. You could call it the morning after the morning before. Here I was, stood at what used to be the World Trade Center. What was it now? Just a pile of ash, dust and rubble. The dust-filled air stung my already devastated eyes. I heard some shouting. “Ethan, Ethan, I think you should come and see this!” It was Alan. He was a volunteer with the firemen. I rushed over to where Alan was standing, next to a large pile of rubble. Amongst all the rubble, they had found Sylvia’s body. She looked as beautiful as she always did. Her light brown hair was tainted with dust, but that didn’t matter. She looked like she had died fighting, fighting to stay alive amongst all the terror of 9/11. I took out the diamond ring from my jacket. The sky was filled with dust, so it didn’t shine as much as when I bought it. I picked up her limp right hand, being careful not to interrupt her peace. I placed the ring on her index finger. It fitted perfectly. I couldn’t help but think of what might have been.

The funerals came thick and fast. Alan’s son Richard, the many firemen and policemen who died serving their country but, most importantly, Sylvia’s. Over 3,000 people had died. It was absolutely horrendous. New York was in a state of shock, our country was in a state of shock. I was not always the most patriotic of Americans, but in times like those, you can’t help but be patriotic.
The next few months were tough to say the least. It took a while for people to get over what had happened, for people to get on a plane or any other form of public transport without fearing for their lives. Eventually though, things got better. Business improved in New York once again. Air traffic controllers felt more secure in their line of work. The search was on. Bin Laden had to be stopped. And thankfully, that is exactly what happened.

It is now 2051. Osama Bin Laden was killed by a specialist American force this exact day 40 years ago. I remember that day like it was yesterday. The unbridled joy on streets across America was a sight to behold. My large suburban house came alive. There was a sense of justice. I just wish I’d had someone to share it with. I haven’t been in a relationship since Sylvia. It’s not that I was still hung up, more because I couldn’t find somebody as amazing as her. However, the 9/11 Memorial and Freedom Tower kept me close to Sylvia’s spirit.
Being 80 years old and retired since 2036, I have had a lot of time for reflection. That is why I am telling you this very story. I may not have the powers to bring her back, but talking about Sylvia helps me to get over what happened. My former right-hand man Alan is still my best friend. It could have all gone downhill for him after Richard’s death but he picked himself up, dusted himself off and became an inspiration to all of us. Now a senator in the US Senate at the grand old age of 75, Alan turned tragedy into triumph. I just hope that all Americans did that. We are a strong people, having been able to turn tragedy into triumph for years. There have been countless times of triumph ever since, and hopefully there will be many more when I’m gone.