9-11 Memorial Museum and The Frick Collection

11 am or so: The skies were clear blue, cloudless and bright. My doll jostled inside my oversized Tweety bird backpack with each bouncing step my 3-year-old feet took. Preschool ended early and abruptly. Our teachers shuffled quickly to steer us to the entrance of P.S. 128. I was the last to be picked up; it must have taken some time for the school to contact Mom who then had to call Grandpa at home. My tiny fist in his leathered hand, we rounded past our favorite corner pizzeria. Tugging on 爷爷's sleeves, I pointed to a thick, charcoal puff condensing above the distant skyline. "What is that?" Oh, it's probably a small fire somewhere. Don't worry, he patted my hand. I didn't.

Over the years, my fragmented memories have pieced themselves together. My aunt Carroll leaving college early and staying with us after the MTA halted all subways. My parents walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and coming home early, not to play with me, but to sit speechless in front of the news. Mom's photograph was on the inside cover of a magazine, her grief and horror stricken face permanently captured at 8:46 am by a passing photographer when she stepped out of the World Trade Center metro station and watched a plane shatter glass, lives and paper fluttering out windows to the ground. At 9:59 am, Dad watched the second tower collapse from his office on 32nd street. He almost took a job on the 101st floor. 

On December 26, 2018, Mom and I visited the 9-11 Memorial Museum.  I've never walked through a more thoughtfully curated museum. For so long, I've wanted to reconcile my juvenile recollections with what actually happened. I've bitten questions back, never wanting others to dig up past pain. Some questions still linger, but I'm content with the incomplete puzzle my memory holds. What matters more today are the stories that emerged, stories of remembrance and stories that were made right from the pile at Ground Zero. After 3.5 hours, I exited back into a blue-skied day, heart softened, slightly dazed, and proud to have Manhattan blood running through my veins.