When I was 6 years old, New York City was the most fascinating place I’d ever seen. “Take your child to work” day was at the end of August and we always seemed to get egg sandwiches at the deli next door to my dad’s office. The office was some sort of magic to my 2-year-old sister and I; there was something about the way you could spin around in big black chairs and write with Expo markers on the white board. It was how every single person in suits had a mission of some sort, a purpose. These city days were my favorite kinds of days.
We left the office around 3:30 p.m. ready to gaze up at the buildings as if we were staring at the mountains. Dad’s giant hands were in our then tiny hands and we were walking down the city-streets of Manhattan. My 2-year-old sister noticed the "Everests" of the city and begged dad to tell her what it was.
Dad told us of the wonders of the twin towers. He told us about the elevator that seemed to go up a million stories and about the workers who always worked so hard. He promised us that would be the next place we visited in the city because his office was right down the block.
We walked, hand-in-hand, to the train station with young eyes staring up at the building blocks touching the sky. It was forever mesmerizing. The image stayed in our heads as we laid our heads to rest that night in our Long Island home.
My 9/11 was a lot like the stories you’ve heard before. The stories about how the sky was cloudless and blue, and it was. It was one of those perfect days where you feel as if flowers are dancing, so you dance with them.
We ran down the street at 7:30 a.m. to the bus stop with my dad close behind. Dad had off this week and was staying home to work on our kitchen. At the bus stop, it seemed like nothing could go wrong.
School was normal as well. I don’t remember a teacher showing any sign of worry because in front of children they had to be soldiers. Behind the scenes, they had to fly through phone calls to ensure every child had a parent to go home to. This is the reason I only remember the clearness of the sky at the bus stop and then walking into my home after school. As my backpack touched the ground, I glanced at my sister’s now 3-year-old finger pointing at the television.
“Daddy, those are those buildings.” She announced, confused. Her hands weren’t as tiny anymore, they were beginning to notice more.
Avalanches were falling off of the Everests of the city, but it was all repeats of what happened this morning. Everything was already over. I was just now seeing it.
After hours of sitting and watching a plane hit a building of thousands of stories wrapped around in skin, we went outside to be with neighbors. I think people tend to forget that at the end of the day, the sky was still technically clear. Everything was gloomy because our eyes became clouds and our tears were the rain. Everything was dark, even if the sun was still out.
We played on the porch, my neighbors, sister, and I; jumping off and watching from a distance the worry whispered between our parents. We watched the gasps and questions, but we just kept jumping. Until my 3-year-old sister, jumped off the porch and bumped her head. I hate this truth of this traumatic day, but that was the closest thing of physical pain anyone I knew felt that day. We grieved from distances of last names we didn’t know, yet we could never comprehend the pain of those who lost loved ones.
It’s been almost 14 years, and I still turn on my television every year to hear the names. I sit in my pajamas with my legs crisscrossed and my palms wide open on my knees wishing that I could touch my brothers and sisters who lost someone in this tragedy. Every year, I feel 6 years-old again, with my then tiny hands. I remember seeing the two towers that were more beautiful than mountains to me. I remember imagining how cool it would be to work in that building, to have a massive purpose.
I created stories for people I didn’t know, people I’ve never seen. When my sisters’ finger pointed at the screen, I didn’t know what I was feeling. I never lost dreams of the imaginary people I created, the ones in offices with a purpose.
The thing is, as I’ve gotten older and as I’ve listened to the names every single year, these people become more real to me. Every year my palms become tenser with the hope that the loved ones of the heroes that passed away are comforted with love on this tragic day.
My hands have grown. It’s been 14 years, so my fingers have become longer and arms can stretch wider. Somehow this day constantly brings me back to my 6 year-old hands. I wake up every 9/11 morning with my hands shrinking. It doesn’t matter how old I get or how many years have passed, this day reminds me that my hands are forever tiny.
My hands could never reach out to hug every person who was affected. My hands could never save a soul from a tragedy. My hands could never craft perfect words to mend a broken heart, and this makes my palms sweat as I listen to the same names year after year.
All I want is to have hands big enough to mend broken hearts. I want to have hands that are big enough to hold the hands of all my brothers and sisters who have lost someone, but my hands will always just be that of a 6-year-old.
