ine. Eleven. Those two numbers are forever etched into the minds of every American. I am a native New Yorker and saw the towers fall from my parents' apartment. I grew up about a mile from ground zero, with an unobstructed nineteenth-story view of lower Manhattan.

Prayer for peace: an artist in Union Square Photo: Greg Altman '95

Every day and night the towers were standing right there, stoic yet elegant. I rarely ascended them, but for some reason, two times during the last month that the Towers stood, I ascended to the sixty-fourth floor of WTC 1 for meetings. My father was scheduled to give a breakfast speech at Windows on the World two weeks after the attack. You can imagine how we felt that day.

One friend, who grew up four floors above us with the same vista, commented that he had felt neither personal need nor desire to commemorate the tragedy. "I have relived it so many times already, and have spent so long talking with friends to heal the wound, I don't want to re-open it now."

In the days preceding the anniversary, it seemed New Yorkers generally did not want to talk about it. Full-length subway car placards let people know where to call if "anger, sleeplessness, anxiety, excessive drinking, or thoughts of 'them'" were becoming too troubling. There was this palpable sense of dread--it's coming--that all the "heartfelt remembrance" set to be unleashed would be overwhelming.

At long last, the day began. I noticed that some of the names of the first victims former mayor Giuliani read--"Abaad," "Abadi"--were probably of the same religion as the attackers. This seemed an ironic sign that the event and its repercussions, then, now, and in the future, would be felt on all sides of the lines we draw.

Most New Yorkers I talked with made their way at some point on the anniversary to Union Square, which had been the epicenter of emotional outpouring in Manhattan for the weeks following the attacks. I did not stay long, but was touched by an Asian woman who prayed and wrote with a giant calligraphy brush, making me think of Yoko Ono.

I rode the subway up to Harlem, from there following a succession of chalk paintings on the pavement along the way downtown. They depicted the Towers in angelic pose. An unusually savage gusty wind swept across the city throughout the day. Especially on this walk, I felt an angry, negative, or judgmental presence in the air. I stopped at the Guggenheim Museum during a calm moment to view the faÁade with a large American flag draped in front. The wind returned, nearly ripping the flag from its mounts.

Entering Central Park, passing the site where the organized candlelight vigil would be held later and winding my way south, I found paths I had never known. I reached the Sheep's Meadow, a green oasis of solace for me on the day of the attacks and throughout my life. A woman led a circle in meditation. I emerged from the park at the New York Society for Ethical Culture, where a collection of Jewish and Arab musicians would be performing a concert together. People I talked with waiting on line felt the concert was a nice gesture, and we wondered why there had not been more events like it.

My last stop was to attend a simple theatrical production called The Guys, in which Sigourney Weaver was playing a writer who helps a fire department captain write eulogies for eight of the fourteen men who perished in his company.

On the way home, I struck up a conversation with a couple on the subway platform holding programs from the play. The man's shirt bore a firefighter's patch. On the ride downtown he told me that the play had been written about his company. Stunned, I thanked him, and bid them a good night as we parted.

--Greg Altman

Altman '95 is a New York writer and photographer.