I had forgotten most of this.

The last time I saw the World Trade Center was on September 6, 2001. I was visiting my parents in New York. Every August meant going to the US Open and as usual my Dad and I had spent the day cramming in as many matches as we could. Also, as usual it was hot as hell. I can remember the sweat dripping down my back as we sat alongside center court. We had just watched Serena Williams defeat Lindsay Davenport in the quarter finals. It was great. It was always great. For some reason, I cannot say for sure why, my Dad decided that the best way to get home from Arther Ashe was to route through downtown (we might have stopped at his office, I'm not sure). As we wound around toward the West Side Highway, in true Clark Griswold fashion, my dad pointed out that we were driving right by the World Trade Center. I looked up at the towers for a moment from the car window, then opened a magazine. I flew back to San Francisco two days later. Three days later I would spend the better part of the day on the phone with my mom trying to locate my Dad. Then my friends, my friend's parents. My Dad was fine. He worked quite often in the towers consulting with Cantor Fitzgerald, but not that day. He arrived home many hours later after walking across the 59th street bridge to Long Island. Then cramming in a crowded stranger's car for the final leg of the journey. Not everyone I love came home that day. I'm not alone in that. I still haven't visited the memorial. Every time I'm in New York my husband says we should go. "It's time," he says. "I'm not ready," I say. Maybe next time.

Let's Roll.

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