Fukiko

The Changed World: The Slow Healing of New York’s Wounded Soul
August 24, 2011

Sometimes, awaiting sleep, or on walks along the river to the Battery, pieces of the day come back. They are never in any order, since memory is a highlight film. But there again are the people, tiny in the high distance, leaping into the empty air beside the smoking North Tower. There on Vesey Street, on the corner of Church, is an immense tire from one of the planes that smashed into the North Tower, and, beside the curb in front of a luncheonette, a pair of women’s shoes and a spilled container of coffee. I can hear the screaming sounds of emergency: sirens, bells, blurry bullhorns.