Blue sky. Clear sky. Not a bird or a plane. Which is what I remember about how the sky looked most of September 11, 2001 as long orderly lines formed at a single pay phone on Lafayette St. I remember that image as much as the rest of snapshots my minds eye took that day, pre-smart phone, post state-of-shock, two days into a week-long trip to New York. That and the early morning yoga practice at Chelsea Piers before, I was told, emergency workers turned it into a triage center. Leaving a cafe in confusion to join hundreds of others who were exiting buildings and subways, trying to get home and locate loved ones and otherwise try to comprehend what was happening. Standing wordlessly in a park with a view of Lower Manhattan, watching the towers fall in real time, a collective gasp hanging in the air. Walking through the city with a friend downloading our life stories. Cooking dinner at another friend's lower east side apartment where a small group gathered, equal parts horrified, terrified and thrilled to be alive. And then the acrid smoke smell as I looked out the window, talking with my brother in California, once cell service was restored and the phone lines opened up. Our dad, a WWll vet, had passed away six weeks earlier after a long year of illness. The corn dad planted earlier in the summer, my brother reported, was high and just about ready to harvest. ...


♫  Dream Me -  Deborah Crooks. Listen @cdbaby


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