New York

Seven years ago, we lived on Charlton Street in New York, just blocks north of Canal Street. Sofia was in pre-school, Jon was on his way to work on Fifth Avenue and I was getting ready to walk over to French General on Crosby Street. Looking out the window from the 11th floor, I realized something had happened downtown. Jon and Sofia returned within the hour and we all spent the day looking out our windows facing the southern tip of Manhattan. Around 4:00 in the afternoon I remember seeing hundreds and hundreds of pick-up trucks headed south on 6th Avenue. We finally left our apartment and walked towards Canal Street - Sofia riding on Jon's shoulders. We were overwhelmed by the amount of missing person flyers, the dust and debris traveling through the streets, and the flag's that were immediately being flown everywhere. By midnight that night, the volunteer trucks began driving south towards Tribeca. For weeks afterwards, we would hear an ambulance screaming up 6th Avenue towards St. Vincent's Hospital, and we always said a silent prayer that someone had survived. Our lives in New York changed that day, as it did for every person that lived on the island. Through the loss, New York became a compassionate neighborhood community. I will always be grateful for living in New York those days and years afterwards, it taught me everything I needed to know about life.