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first tower collapsed. Cries of anguish filled my ears. People were praying. Mysteriously, a yellow taxi appeared. A pretty girl, hysterically demanded to be taken to lower Manhattan, where her fiance worked. The driver agreed, for the meager sum of one thousand dollars. When some one noticed his Middle Eastern persuasion, a riot ensued. The mob nearly killed the cabbie, save for the alert policeman who had been directing traffic.

Then, the second tower went down. Watchers fell to their knees, as though shot. There was no panic, only disbelief. Some had Sony Walkmans, reporting information as it came through radio news. Grief spread as estimates surfaced that 30,000 people had been in the towers. I was taking inventory in my mind who worked there or may have had cause to be in either of the twin towers that I knew. Many were making futile attempts to use their cell phone, calling numbers that no longer existed. Suddenly, in the midst of all that despair, the crowd began to move slowly away from the scene. I joined the group heading toward Hoboken, the central train depot. With defeat etched on our faces, we shuffled along like prisoners on a chain gang.

Someone began to say a rosary aloud. Many joined, some not knowing the words of prayer, rather trying to appeal to a greater force for help and consolation. Others questioned God aloud. After all, we were the Blessed People. Those with earphones stopped reporting the news flashes. Nothing but disaster. The journey to the station and the ride to the security of home and hearth was our only goal. Along the way, we passed groups in aimless parade. Stories of WW II that had been told to my family by my uncles seemed to parallel this civilian behavior. The aftershock of being surrounded by death and destruction.

After 7 hours, I arrived at my home, my family crying with joy for my safe return, saving some tears for the tragedy that 9/11 had become.

Learn more about this author, Ralph Lawrence.
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