September 11

I lived in New York City on September 11. It's something I feel odd discussing, because I had only moved there two or three weeks before that date. I had an apartment, and a job, and I was a brand new transplant. So when the date comes around each year, I can't feel but that I was an impostor to be witnessing this unreal happening in our nation's history. I didn't know anyone personally who was lost that day. I had been down there a few days before (my landlord's office was down there and I had dropped of a rent check, I think), and so my only connection with that area of the city was proximity. So I don't feel like it's my story in any way, shape, or form. 

But I lived there, and I ran home through Central Park and saw abandoned baby strollers. I smelled burning for weeks, and saw photos of missing people posted on every lamppost and subway station wall, and wiped down the fine sooty ash that deposited itself in every crack of our apartment. I flinched for months when planes flew overhead. It isn't my story, but it's one that affected everyone who saw and witnessed. 

Remember. Remember to honor those who were lost. 

{Photos taken on film at the 9/11 Memorial in October 2013, when I visited NYC with my dear friend Andrea, with whom I lived on September 11, 2001.}