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Ground zero.

Until a few weeks ago, this area was called the World Trade Center.

New York City. Corner of Ann and Broadway, one, maybe two blocks from where the planes crashed into the World Trade Center.

Saturday, September 22, 2001.

"I have to help," my wife Sue said. "I have to do something. I have to be there."

So we drove down Friday night, listening to the telethon concert on the way, both fighting back tears at the stories of heroism and sacrifice.

New York is different this time around; there are cops on literally every corner. Although life goes on, the city seems subdued. Broadway and 5th and 6th Avenues are buzzing, but the entire atmosphere had changed. People move a little slower. The frenzy is gone. Only the cabs still beep and drive like crazy. You can still hear the subway rumbling and clacking through the grates, but many of the stations are closed.

The Empire State building once again the tallest building in New York is beautifully lit in red, white and blue. It seems somehow reassuring.

Police barricades to all but rescue workers stop cars, but people are still allowed to walk the fourteen blocks to this spot. You can't get to Ground Zero and that's probably a blessing; the images we've all seen on television are probably even more visceral in person. Two blocks away, what you can see defies description.

Across the street, a block away from where the towers came down, are more police barricades. I've never seen so many police officers. They all have the same look on their facesit's like they're on automatic. There's no New York arrogance, there's no indifference. They just stare, so sadly.

You meet their eyes and they just nod. So many of them, their eyes are red. What has happened here is unthinkable. Two weeks later, no one can accept the reality.

The fire department guys are moving like robots. They just do their work. They look so tired. They probably haven't had a real night's sleep in weeks.

There are huge construction lights, shattering the night in a harsh blue-white glow. The sound of heavy machinery from trucks and bulldozers is overpowering.

The air is harshnot exactly acrid, but heavy. Sort of like when you cut drywall and the dust gets kicked up.

The gray gypsum / concrete dust is everywhere. It covers the entire sides of buildings, the ground, the storefront windows, the doorways, and the telephones. Designer shoes, clothes and boots, safely behind store windows, are covered with the ash. In many stores, counters and displays are scattered

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