I was walking west up Fulton Street after voting in the primary when the first plane hit. I only heard the crash first because the view of the towers was obscured until I went a few steps farther. I -- and everyone else near me -- just stood in disbelief. That gaping orange-red hole, spewing smoke was only comprehensible a few seconds later because my first job in the City had been up there. That's when the first wave of horror hit me. Then I noticed the million little white flecks, like glittering confetti, flying around. It was office paper. It and the smoke were headed straight over my apartment 4 blocks east on John Street, and I immediately remembered my dog was there with the window open. I had left it open a crack that day because the weather was so pristine.
Reading The Huffington Post
this morning, I saw a link to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum website
, where they are actively collecting stories from people about that day. The above is a beginning of my first attempt at writing down something I've related over the years to so many people. Perhaps others here will have stories they can share, as well.