It was a beautiful morning. Bright sun, blue sky, crisp air.
I walked through Union Square, on my way to vote.

A lady ran past me screaming in Spanish.
Something like “Estamos muertos”. She pointed to the sky.
As I turned in the direction she pointed and saw the Towers on fire.

The polling site was closed.
I thought I should continue on to work.
A massive crowd of people were walking up Fifth Ave.
I joined them.

Around 27th or 28th street I saw a black man sitting on the hood of a car,
holding a transistor radio to his ear.
He tipped it at an angle so a Hasidic man could listen too.
I wished I'd had my camera.

At Times Square we watched Peter Jennings on mute.
The Viacom building was locked.
I decided to go home.

I stopped at a church on Park and prayed.
I called my Mom.
The sirens, the people were so loud I had to shout. I'm alright. I'm OK.

I went to my boyfriend's apartment.
His TV was on. He told me what had happened.
I called my Mom again.
He held me and I cried.

I walked home alone.
It wasn't the first time he'd abandoned me.
I didn't cry.

The streets were dark and crowded.
Like a block party with soldiers.
Fighter jets were circling, flying low.

My building was quiet.
I didn't watch TV.
I didn't call anyone.
I didn't turn on the lights.
I didn't dream.