I woke up last September 11 to a beautiful Indian summer morning on Long Island. I took my husband to the train station, my twin girls to daycare, and was just turning on my laptop to work from home when the phone rang. It was my husband, who had just emerged from the West 4th Street subway station in Manhattan to an unimaginable sight - not 20 blocks away, the World Trade Center was on fire.
He learned from stunned passersby that a plane had just hit the north tower, and we both thought, as many people initially did, that somehow a small plane had lost its way and crashed into the building, much like the one that hit the Empire State Building in the 1940s.We hung up, he continued walking to work, and with trepidation, I turned on the television and watched as the TV commentators tried to make sense of the breaking news. At 9:03 a.m. with the station’s cameras still trained on the center, the upper stories of the south tower suddenly burst into flames. It took a moment, but I gradually realized that the towers were under attack.
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