It was the Sunday after 9/11/2001. I lived on West 57th Street, near Central Park. The neighborhood was unnaturally quiet for a beautiful, sunny September day. People were subdued on the elevators and the streets.
Late afternoon, I decided to get something to eat from a nearby carryout restaurant. As I was about to cross Broadway at 57th, I saw a huge flatbed truck carrying earth-moving equipment traveling at a funereal pace toward the desolation where the Twin Towers once stood.
Suddenly, I started to sob, releasing pain that I had kept controlled for days. The license plate on the truck said "Pennsylvania." The state of my birth was sending help to the city I had come to love.
My heart still hurts.
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