A Small September 11th Recollection

On September 8th, 2001, my Mother invited all of her family to her house, to enjoy one last dip in the pool before we closed it for the season. That was the last time I spoke to Ed Murphy, my landlord at 1103 Washington Street. Earlier in the week, I had decided not to renew my lease, based on the fact that I was still recovering from an accident in June; a hit-and-run on the West Side Highway that snapped the bones in both of my arms.

My family is an animated bunch, and when Ed called that Saturday the phone was merrily passed from Aunt to Uncle, until it finally made it back to me. “Sounds like you are having a party.” He said. I replied with a sheepish sort of grunt that expressed my (then) slight distaste for such occasions, mumbling something about it being my Mother’s party, not mine. He went on to tell me that he had written up an extension of my lease through October, and that he was sending that document in the mail for me to sign. It was a short phone call; he inquired after my injuries and recuperation, and wished me a speedy recovery. But before he ended the call, (and this account is absolutely not embellished) I got a gentle kind of scolding: “Enjoy the party with your family; it’s really great to be together with them like that.”

I remember lying on the pavement that day in June, deliberately wiggling my toes, then my knees, up to by hips, back and neck, assessing the damage.

I remember waking up that morning to see the second plane hit, my Mother telling me that Cantor Fitzgerald was located in the WTC, calling Ed’s house in Clifton, speaking to his brother, confirming the worst.

And I remember receiving the aforementioned letter that following Saturday, the 15th.

And all I can say is that even the most excruciating physical pain from that accident, and all the anguish that comes with recovery, it was totally insignificant when compared to the pain I felt on that day, and all of the days and months that followed.