9/11

I remember september 11th, 2001 in short bursts of memories. I remember sitting in my kitchen, the door open, and it was early in the day. We had been let out of school early, but I don’t remember leaving the school. I remember the warmth of the early september 11th weather pouring into the kitchen, a nostalgic taste of the summer prior. I had been eating a cream cheese and jelly sandwich, sitting far away from the table and staring at the t.v. I saw both towers in pieces. My mother was in another room, probably talking to her friends still living in the city. I realized the severity of the situation, but as a child I could not fully absorb the emotional toll of this disaster.

My father had been a fire fighter for 20 years, serving in Harlem, the Bronx and Yonkers, and had finally retired only a few months before 9/11. When he heard news of the crisis, he immediately began to make his way down to Manhattan. He ran into plenty of traffic, and arrived on the scene long after both towers had fallen. He saw the wreckage first hand; I don’t think my Dad will ever reconcile what happened on that horrible day. My Dad knew many of the fireman who died fighting to save the lives of the victims, and had even worked in the same Ladder as some of them. Tragedy was all around us. Another family in my hometown Pleasantville lost a father in the incident, Captain Charles William Garbarini. Today, there’s a basketball court at the Pleasantville Middle School named in his honor. I used to skate there when I was younger, and anytime I fell on my ass, I thought about Mr. Garbarini, and how he gave his all on that dreaded date. It used to push me, and it used to make me mad. Mad that something so horrible as this could have ever happened.

It wasn’t until all these first hand accounts that I began to feel the depth of the tragedy. Every St. Patrick’s day, My father dresses in a dark black fireman’s suit, and wears the purple insgnia of the 311 firemen that lost their lives. I march as well, and deep down I march for those who were lost too along with my Irish county.

Surprisingly, I had never visited the 9/11 memorial before last Thursday. My Mom has been dying to come down and see it, but it’s different for my Dad. I think he’s scared of reliving his own memories on 9/11. So, as I entered the memorial I thought of my dad, and my mom, and all the people they knew who died on 9/11, and the others I didn’t know.

I thought it was beautiful the first minute upon entering. The trees all lined up, and perfectly spaced from each other. They gave a sense of life in the memorial, that something could grow out of this desolate location. And of course, the waterfalls. I thought they really nailed the design and concepts behind the piece. The water was beautiful as it made its decent into the unknown abyss. The area was silent, people held their tongues and held their heads low, with the sound of rushing water rolling in the background. The sound was soothing, and sent me into a mood of tranquility and humility. I think everyone wanted to hear the water running. It calmed the nerves and eased our thoughts, as if the voices of those who past were embedded in each drop of water.

I was thrilled to find Mr. Garbarini’s name written down surrounding the Southern Tower. I felt a happiness flood over me, and I began to smirk a little. Something about seeing his name there made everything I’d ever felt for this day O.K.. I felt at peace about the whole thing, and had a very reflective day from then on. It felt good to finally visit the memorial. I hope one day my Dad could come down here, and feel that same O.K I experienced.