“If we learn nothing else from this tragedy, we learn that life is short and there is no time for hate.”

~~Sandy Dahl, wife of United Flight 93 pilot, Jason Dahl

[Split images. Photo: New York Times.]

The memory of that Tuesday morning is still very clear in my mind. That crisp autumn-like day when the sky was deep blue. It was September 11, 2001. I was crossing Central Park in a Yellow taxi on my way to school. As I was about to emerge from the Park onto 5th Avenue, I had something of a premonition of sorts. But I also had a similar feeling the evening before.

I don’t really believe that one can see the future, but whatever it was that happened to me is certainly very curious.

On the evening of Sept. 10th, I was sitting in a taxi heading down 9th Avenue to an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen (now called Clinton). I had been taking the Fiction Writing course with the Gotham Writers Workshop. The classes had ended but a handful of us didn’t want it to be over so we agreed to meet at our various apartments. As the cab sped downtown, I looked to the west. Dark clouds from an approaching cold front were heading toward Manhattan. As I stared at the grey cumulus masses, as each street went by, I remember thinking of an invading army…from the west. It rained hard and furious while we discussed and critiqued each others work. The front passed over, and set the tone for a clear and sunny Tuesday.

As I approached 5th Avenue on Tuesday morning, I had a silly thought. I was looking up at the deep blue sky. I imagined I was inside the movie The Wizard of Oz. I imagined the Wicked Witch, on her broom, sky-writing SURRENDER DOROTHY across the heavens, across the blue sky. I imagined these things, but I could never imagine what was going to happen about an hour later.

[On my way back to the Upper West Side in the afternoon I looked down an avenue. This photo is not exactly what I saw, but it’s very close. Source: Library of Congress.]

I spoke with my wife who was at work at Mt. Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side. I told her to go home and wait for me. I couldn’t leave until all the students had been picked up and after attending a quick faculty meeting.

My usual ride home was with the school nurse. Normally I was the only passenger she had, but on this day, there were six of us. The NYPD had closed all the transverse roads in Central Park, so we were rerouted to 110th St. I got out of her car on Central Park West. A single bell was tolling from St. John the Divine. The streets were quiet. The skies were empty except for a sole F-16 flying around Manhattan Island.

I got home and found Mariam riveted to the TV.

“Look at this,” she said.

I had not seen any images of the Twin Towers falling until 6 PM. What I saw put me into a shock that lasted for months.

I called the school in Binghamton, NY where my son, Brian was in class. I asked if someone from the office could find his classroom and tell him that his dad was okay. I spoke to my daughter, Erin who was living in Arizona.

Your dad is safe. He’s okay, I told them. Sadly, that wasn’t the message thousands of children were to hear in the days that followed.

What I remember the most about walking home in the weeks that followed were the countless notes, posters, letters and photos pasted to utility poles and windows.

PLEASE HELP ME FIND MY DADDY!

MY HUSBAND IS MISSING. PLEASE LOOK FOR HIM

I HAVEN’T SEEN MY WIFE IN DAYS. PLEASE HELP ME!

I LOVE YOU, DADDY!

I LOVE YOU, SWEETHEART.

I have these images on a photo chip in a box, in a corner, in the dark. I’ll find them someday.

But I don’t need to review my camera’s history to verify what my eyes saw in the days and weeks after that bright blue Tuesday. That Tuesday in September of 2001.

So, were those visions–those ominous feelings I had the night of Sept. 10 and in the minutes before the planes on that Tuesday morning–really premonitions? Was there something in the air of Manhattan that I was breathing, a collective crying out, an over-soul of loss and pain?

I’ll never really know, will I?