9/11 memorial lights, seen from Coffey Park, Red Hook
It was a perfect sunny Tuesday in September. I was living uptown. Normally, I would have been on my bike, but I had to take the train to New Jersey for work. I was late, as usual. I hurried to my polling place, and voted in the Democratic primary. In the window of the deli adjoining the entrance to the Dyckman St. A train station, I was conscious of a strange picture of buildings on TV. The train came, and I got on it. Somewhere short of Columbus Circle, it stopped. Some suspected track work; others, a jumper. Eventually, the train made it to 59th St., where passengers were ordered off. On TV, through the window of another deli, I watched the second plane strike.
I can’t account for what I thought I saw on the deli TV uptown; either I caught the fastest A express in the history of the line, or nothing had happened yet. Likewise, I can’t account for what happened between the time I arrived back uptown and the next meal that I remember. I think it was the next day that I got together with some friends in Brooklyn. I made a beef brisket with beets. It looked horribly gory. I found it mostly inedible.
With the passage of time, I am surprised how affected I am by 9/11’s anniversaries. How the two stabbing lights stop me in my tracks, how I can picture where I’ve seen them each time, riding my bike over the Queensboro Bridge, or walking the dog in Red Hook. How when the sadness creeps up, I keep it down with food.
