I was only 2 1/2 years old on 9/11. I lived less than 20 miles from the World Trade Center, on Long Island. My father worked at 1 Battery Park Plaza, on the absolute tip of Manhattan Island, a few blocks away from the WTC.
At about 8:50 a.m. on September 11, I was watchng cartoons on Nickelodeon and my mom got a call from my grandma, who said a plane crashed into the World Trade Center. She also informed us that my mom’s cousin’s husband was supposed to be at Windows on the World for a breakfast conference.
My mom got me dressed and we drove to my Aunt Maddie’s house, we got there a few minutes before 9:00. A couple other close family members were gathered around the TV, and I went down into the basement to play with my older cousins who were pulled out of school. I remember bumping my lip on a piece of furniture and going up to the kitchen crying. My mom put some ice on my lip and I felt better, so I started walking through the living room in my aunt’s high heels.
My Uncle Rob had ended up narrowly escaping death; he had gone up to the meeting but was turned away for not being on the guest roster. The plane hit his tower the moment he got off the elevator, and he was on the last train back to Long Island before the bridges closed.
As my father was out on the street staring at the burning north tower, the second plane flew directly over his head and slammed into the South Tower. He ran inside and tried calling his good friend John, who worked in WTC2, but was gladly late that day. My dad’s building went on lockdown after the collapses; smoke and dust enveloped his and many other buildings in Lower Manhattan.
My mom, giving up home that my father was alive, brought me back home. As we pulled up in the driveway at about 1:00 p.m., we saw my dad walking up the sidewalk with a dazed look on his face, having just walked over the Brooklyn Bridge and got a ride home from a good samaritan. We couldn’t have been more thankful to God for his return.
And that is my story.
GOD BLESS AMERICA <3