I visited the 9/11 Memorial (World Trade Center (164, 82, 26) last night. The setting was solemn and elegant; the names of the dead were etched in gold on long polished slabs of black granite, streams of water that resembled columns of tears slid along the surface. The walls were surrounded by water, the sim seemingly in perpetual sunset. Between the walls was a space illustrated with the faces of the known dead. Though difficult to discern, the walls worth of postage stamped sized individuals emphasized how very many people lost their lives.
I remember that day well. My brother and sister in law lived not too far away and it took a long time to reach them. Relatives had come to visit from England and watched in horror as the first plane cruised right above their heads and into the building. Suddenly the sky was filled with what looked like small glass crystals and dust. They were all locked in the apartment for days, having to show identification in order to leave the perimeter that had been set up by authorities around their neighborhood. My father, who was in the city at the time, fell into soldier mode and ran towards the action, to see what he could do to help. He soon found out there was nothing to be done.