I am awoken suddenly by a loud squawking noise. I look over at my alarm clock and see that it is flashing 6 o’clock am. I quickly turn it off and sit up. I take a moment to take in the shimmering light the sun is providing through my bedroom windows on this beautiful bright and sunny Tuesday morning. I could hear my husband trying not to let the door snap to our apartment as he was already leaving for work. He has to be in an hour before me.

Oh how I wish he wasn’t leaving already. I wish we could leave and come home from work together. That way we could steal some more time for ourselves. I glance over at the clock. “Oh shoot.  I’m going to have to hurry now to get ready in order to leave the house for work in an hour.”  I put on my glasses and rush to get showered and get dressed. I dry my long brown hair and pull it back into a nice, tidy ponytail. Satisfied with my results, I head out into the kitchen to say goodbye to our 15-year-old daughter, Amy, who is also getting ready for school.

“Bye Amy! See you later!” I say to her. “Have a good day!”

At 7 o’clock, I lock my apartment door in Brooklyn Heights and get in a mustard yellow taxi that takes me over the Brooklyn Bridge to the World Trade Center. I am an insurance agent with the Allstate Insurance Company. My office is on the 24th floor of the South Tower. My husband, Paul, works on the 86th floor of the North Tower. The Twin Towers are part of a seven building commercial complex known as the World Trade Center. The taxicab lets me off in my usual spot, the corner of Liberty St and West St. I dart some money at him with a smile.

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

I have arrived at the 110 story building. I follow the crowd of people through the rotating doors into my building. I make my way over to the escalators to go up to where the elevators are. I patiently wait my turn to get into the next available elevator. Ding. The doors of the elevator in front of me open. A few people get off, leaving the elevator empty. I get on and press the button for the 24th floor. The elevator fills up around me. I notice that many of them are men, and nobody's smiling. They are probably all thinking what I am thinking. Why are we in here when it’s a sparkling, gorgeous day with not a single cloud in the sky? Ding. The elevator doors open and I make my way off.

“Have a nice day!” I smile and say to the others as the doors close behind me. I turn and make my way to my office. I greet each employee when I enter. There are only five of us who work in this office. I sit down at my own desk and stare at the North Tower for a moment. I look up to where Paul's office is. I wonder what he is doing. I’ll call him to tell him I love him and that I made it to work and that I am thinking about him.

I am cheerful to hear from him as we agree to meet for lunch.   Now I just have to get through much of my large stack of papers by lunch so I can take a lunch. I get right down to work. Everyone in my office is working peacefully.

All of a sudden, there is a deafening screech and explosion outside. My heart starts to race and my stomach is in my throat. I have no idea what the sound is or could be. I just have this feeling that something happened outside. I wait for the building’s information system to give us an update or any information over the building’s loudspeakers.

“There seems to be a mechanical problem in the North Tower. Personnel have been notified. There is nothing to be concerned of. Please return to your Businesses.” Huh? That didn’t sound like just a mechanical problem from here. I swear there is the faintest smell of jet fuel in the air. I am having an extremely hard time concentrating on my work. I start to hear what sounds like screams, but in whispers, along with harsh, swift thuds.

“What on Earth is that noise? Where is it coming from?” I ask myself out loud. My heart's still racing, and my stomach is doing somersaults. I step out of my office, and I can see that my coworkers are having the same problems. I venture out of our business office and see people lining up at the elevators. I go back into the office and ask one of my coworkers if he knows what the sound and explosion were, and if he feels uneasy too. All of my coworkers feel the same way.

“Do you think we should go outside and see if something’s happening?” I ask him.

“Yeah. Maybe we should go investigate,” he replies. All five of us from our office decide that we are going to go down to the plaza and investigate.

I grab my purse and call Paul.  He doesn’t respond. He must be in a meeting still. No big deal. He’ll answer when he gets a chance. I join the others at the lines for the elevators. I look around and notice the crowd forming around us.

“Wow. I think everyone has the same idea as us,” I say to one of my coworkers. He nods in agreement. The elevator doors open and close several times. Each time they are already at their maximum occupancy. We wait about 15 minutes before we decide that we are going to take the stairs instead. I am shocked, dumbfounded when I open the stairwell doors and see the crowded stairwells. The amount of people going down the stairs has me very apprehensive. For that amount of people, all you can hear is a slight murmur and a calmness as people file down one by one. No one is pushing or shoving; they’re helping each other.  I take my place in the narrow, steady line of people heading down to the Plaza level. These stairs end at the lobby level. I continue to follow the crowd out to the escalators.

The area is heavily congested and smells of sweat with dampness. I make my way down the escalator to the plaza. The shouting and screams are all around me, intensifying with each step I take.

“I’ve got to get out and find out what is going on,” I keep repeating to myself.

I exit the building through the revolving doors and go into the courtyard of the complex. I stop dead in my tracks. My jaw drops. I cannot believe my eyes. People are stopped, standing there, gasping and looking up. I look up. Tears immediately spring down my cheeks. I start trembling uncontrollably. There is dark, black, thick smoke pouring out of the top portion of the North Tower. The smell of jet fuel, death and fear is overwhelming. I scramble to try to find Paul’s office. All I can see is black smoke and flames.

“OMG! PAUL!!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I dial his number on my cell phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail. “He has to be alright. He has to be on his way down.” I try to calm myself.  It’s not working.

I vaguely hear someone's voice in the background, “It’s not safe here! You need to keep moving!”

“It’s not safe?” I’m confused. These towers are supposed to be the strongest buildings in the world. They withstood a bombing attack in 1993.

I am then startled by ear splitting screams. I turn towards them to witness the most gut wrenching thuds that I have ever witnessed. People are jumping from the North Tower. I am struck with fear and sorrow. I cannot believe that this woman jumped from 95 stories to her death. What she must have gone through to make that decision.

I am at a loss for words. By what I can see all around me, she isn’t the only one who made that decision. Beside the fallen bodies are mounds of ashes, papers upon papers, steel and glass. There are little fire balls of paper that people are stomping out. It is like a war scene from a movie. That’s what this must be, a movie that I’m dreaming about. It just has to be. I try to call Paul again. It goes straight to his voicemail.

 “He must still be on his way down,” I say to myself as reassurance.

Someone bumps into me.

“Sorry. Can you believe this?” A woman asks me.

“That’s ok. No I can’t. Do you know what happened?” I reply back.

A gentleman near us says, “A plane crashed into the tower.”

I immediately go pale and start swaying. I can taste bile in my dry mouth. My eyes overflow with tears that start pouring down my face. My knees go weak. My legs are limp.

“Are you okay?” The lady next to me asks.

“Paul! Paul works up there.” I am barely able to whisper out as I start to collapse on my knees and point to the top of the North Tower.

“I am sure he is fine. He is probably on the stairs right now making his way down to you. You’ll see,” the woman next to me says calmly while holding my hand and helping me to my feet. “But we can’t stay here. If you want to still be around when Paul gets out, then we need to get away from this smoke and ash. It’s hard to breathe. The security guards are directing people out towards Liberty or West Street. We can try and call him when we get out there.”

“Yes. Thank you,” I mutter to the woman and graciously take her help and let her lead me out to Liberty Street.

We just make it onto Liberty Street when this ear piercing whistle comes out of nowhere and sends a deafening, earth shattering, vibrant fireball of explosion into the South Tower. I am quickly surrounded by a heavy, dense black smoke and covered from head to toe in ash. There is paper flying all around. Chunks of hot burning steel and metal lying on the ground, flying in the air, in places it shouldn’t be. Everywhere you look there is glass. It’s in your hair, on your clothes and in the street and sidewalks. The paper is catching fire. There are fireballs in the street and on the sidewalks. People are on fire.

“Oh my God. Please make this nightmare end!” I pray to myself.  I haven’t realized that I am crouched on the ground. I am completely stunned, frozen. I am unable to move, even though I know I have too. It’s like I have been paralyzed, but by fear, not by injury. Out of the corner of my eye I see people start to run.   I yell to them, “Will someone please tell me what on earth is going on?!”

I faintly hear someone yell out, “A plane just flew into the South Tower.”

I am in total disbelief. Shaking my head, I try to look up, but I can’t because of the ash and paper that continues to rain down on me and around me.

“I was just in there,” I barely whisper out loud. Someone walks over to me and helps me to my feet. “Thank you.” I manage to say.  They nod and move on to help someone else.

 On instinct, I start to help others to their feet. Several of us take turns pointing others out that need assistance getting to their feet. We hurry to them and get them on their feet and moving away from this horror as quick as possible. The crowd of people continues to thicken around us. It pulls me with it. I am now heading East on Liberty Street.

I stop to catch my breath on the corner of Liberty Street at Broadway. People are standing all around me, gasping, shaking their heads, crying, just staring and watching the Towers burn.

“Cell phones?” I repeat to myself out loud. “Where is my cell phone?” There it is, safely tucked away in the pocket of my pants. I take it out and dial Paul’s number. It goes immediately to his voicemail. “He must be on it. He’s just trying to call me. I know he’s safe. He has to be.” My stomach keeps twisting and twirling. My chest feels heavy like a ton of bricks is crushing down on it.

I try Paul’s cell phone yet again. It goes straight to voicemail again. I scream into the phone, “Why aren’t you answering? Where are you?” I start crying into the phone now, “I need you.” I end my call in a soft, shaky, plead like whimper voice, “I’m scared. I love you Paul. Please be alright.” I end the call and drop to the ground.

I am unable to control my emotions. I give in to my fears of the possibility of Paul being dead and of being alone and start to hysterically cry. I am terrified by the events that I have seen, heard and felt.

I suddenly hear screeching and horns. As they get closer I look up to see bright ruby and sapphire lights try to go by. Behind them are firetrucks and ambulances. I am compelled to try and help them.

I yell out, waving my hands and arms, “Move people, get out of their way! They are going to help save people. Move people move!” I am frantically trying to get people and vehicles to move so these emergency vehicles can get through to the Towers and help the people that are there. A policeman walking on the street stops and taps me on the shoulder.

“Are you okay ma’am?”

“Yes, I am just trying to help clear the way for you guys. There are people hurt down there. They need you.” I try to explain myself in a hurry.

“We understand that ma’am. That’s why we are going down there. Please don’t try and do our job. Let us handle it. Now, you would be more safe if you headed home.”  He then yells out to everyone standing on the sidewalk and in the streets, to clear the area and head to their homes.  I nod in compliance, but I feel compelled to stay.

I walk north on Broadway with the crowd for one block. I am now on Cortlandt Street. I just keep talking to myself.  Paul is fine. He is on his way home. This is all a nightmare. I will wake up soon and everything will be fine.  I must have been talking out loud because someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Where does Paul work?’

I explain to a complete stranger, “He works on the 86th floor of the North Tower.” I hear a gasp from someone around me. “What? Do you know something?” I ask the person who gasped.

“No.  The plane hit above that. Yeah, well above that.” My heart starts to race again. My palms are wet with sweat. I glance at my phone before tucking it in my pants pocket. No voicemails.

It’s 9:50 am. There is a blast of thunder, and the sky goes black. Sheer pandemonium breaks out. The smoke and dust is so thick and dense you’re choking for air. I can’t breathe. Oh god, I’m going to die, I think to myself.

Someone yells in my ear, “Cover your nose and mouth and run for your life!”

I hurl my body around and take off running as fast as a cheetah. I head North on Broadway, dodging as many people, vehicles, steel beams and fireballs as I can.

“There’s got to be a way out of here! There has to be some place I can go!” I think as I run.

I spot someone going in a door. I run over to it and try to open it. The handle is hot, gritty and rough. I can’t grip it. It suddenly opens for me while I am trying to open it. Others push in behind me. A man hands me a water bottle and says, “here, take this.” I take a sip. I do my best to clean off my glasses to see where I am. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like a restaurant of some sort. I survey everyone around me. They are all coughing and covered in thick, grey, smoky ash. There clothes are all disheveled, some torn, shoes missing. We look like refugees from a war torn country.

The water does little to help sooth my dry and raw throat. I taste and smell smoke and soot. I think the inside of my nose and mouth is burnt by all the ash and soot I’ve been breathing in.

Several minutes go by and the pitch black darkness is giving way to a dull shade of greyness outside. I can see people walking and running through it. I start sobbing. I feel helpless, confused, lost. This is all so unreal.

 “The South Tower collapsed,” I hear someone say. I go numb. Stunned to the core. My heart starts racing like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. All I know is I’ve got to get out of there. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to get to my daughter, Amy, and my husband, Paul. I’ve got to get to them. My fight or flight instincts kick into overdrive. It is now or never.

I take my bottle of water and bolt out the door. I run as fast as I can. It is extremely difficult. The air is so dense. Visibility is almost nonexistent. Everything is covered in layers of thick ash, which makes their shape irregular. I can’t tell what I am stepping on at times. My nose feels burnt, singed. It hurts to breathe. My throat is raw, dry and rough. I am coughing, trying to clear my throat and lungs. It isn’t working. I am not stopping no matter what. I’m not giving up. My legs are getting hot and are starting to feel like jello.

I decide to stop running and just walk. I see crowds of people all around me doing the same thing. Everyone looks terrified, utterly exhausted and frightened. No one is talking, just walking. There are no taxis, no buses, no trains, or subways to help us. The only way home is to walk out of the city. It takes me over an hour to walk the 12 blocks from the World Trade Center to the Brooklyn Bridge. The bridge is packed with people who are walking over it. There are no cars driving over the bridge. Only people. What an amazing sight. It is awe inspiring. Once across the bridge I am able to catch a ride with some other people who have also been walking across the bridge to my apartment. I am so grateful.

“Mom? Is that you? Oh my God! What happened to you?” She runs to me crying and hugging me.

“It’s me. Have you heard from Dad?” I hope she had.

“No. I’ve been trying both of you. The news said the cell towers are overloaded because everyone is trying to call at once. This is crazy.” I nod at her. That must be why he didn’t answer me.

“I’m sure he is on his way home. He will be here any minute,” I try to reassure both of us. I quickly take a shower and join Amy in front of the tv. I explain the horror I went through to get home. Amy explains to me that as I was walking home, the North Tower fell too. We both just hold each other. My throat goes dry, and I can’t speak. Tears stream down my face. I can’t stop. My heart is aching, telling me that something is wrong with Paul. I am overloaded with emotions. I’m not sure what to say or do. Amy can sense that something is wrong, but she doesn’t say anything. She just sits there in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

We sit on our living room couch for most of the day and night, glued to the television. Every time either one of us hears footsteps outside, our heads snap towards the front door anticipating it to open.

I plead quietly, “Oh please, let it be Paul. Oh please, let it be Paul.” The door never opens. I am devastated.

I turn my attention back to the tv. The news is explaining how this was all orchestrated by the group Al-Qaeda. 19 People led by Osama Bin-Laden had split up into four groups and hijacked four different flights all loaded with at least 20,000 gallons of jet fuel on each of them. Two flights, American Airlines flight 11 and United flight 175, both left Logan Airport and were headed to Los Angeles. Two other flights, American Airlines flight 77 left Washington Dulles Airport and was headed to Los Angeles, and United flight 93 left Newark Airport to head to San Francisco. Two Planes, American Airlines flight 11 and United flight 175 crashed into the Twin Towers, American Airlines flight 77 dove into the Pentagon and United flight 93 crash landed in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

I cannot believe what I am hearing and seeing. The news is showing pictures of the crashes. I watch as each plane slams into each Tower, reliving each horrifying moment, each feeling over and over again. I can’t stop it. Panic starts to set in. I’m startled by my cough. It breaks the trance, helps remind me to calm down; I’m safe at home. The news is reporting how we were not prepared for anything like this to happen. How could we be? No one would have thought this would have happened. We don’t fight this kind of war on American soil. This kind of destruction is the kind you only see in movies here in America. Of course we are not prepared. Who in their right mind would have been?

The Twin Towers were constructed in a certain way so that they could withstand the test of time and the elements. The buildings were made out of high strength load-bearing perimeter steel columns that were spaced really close together to form a strong rigid wall structure. Every three stories, a massive a steel plate was welded on for added stability and strength. The Towers were built with cutting edge technology in 1968. They even withstood a bomb explosion in 1993. No one would have ever thought that someone would intentionally crash a plane into them. A plane filled with innocent people.

“What were they thinking? How did the hijackers even get on the planes? Why didn’t anyone stop them?” I asked myself out loud.

“Mom, the people were probably really scared like you and me. They didn’t know what was going to happen, to them or the plane or even why. You know security at an airport isn’t even that tight. There aren’t very many security guards, police or TSA agents at airports. You’re lucky if you see any more than the one or two that are at the checkpoint. Plus, they probably had fake ids. Those are so easy to get. You can get them online. Or steal some ones. You get to the checkpoint, show your fake id, put your bag through the x-ray machine, you walk through the metal detector, and off you go. You can carry small scissors, jack knives, razor blades, Swiss army knives, small things like that on planes. There is nothing to stop you or them,” Amy informs me.

“You make it sound so easy, Amy, and really scary if you stop and think about it.”

The news continues to show pictures of all the fireman, police and EMS workers before either tower collapsed. They also said how an area hospital was set up as the triage hospital to treat the injured.  “I wonder if Paul is there. Maybe he got hurt and was sent there. I’ll give Beekman Downtown Hospital Center a call.”

I call and am told they have no patient with the name Paul Smith registered, but that they don’t have everyone’s name. I can come down and see if I can find him myself. They treated 1500 patients throughout the hospital today.

“Paul, where are you? Why haven’t you come home yet?” I ask myself quietly. I don’t want to show Amy just how scared and worried I am. I’m trying not to lose hope.

I glance at the tv and see people walking around aimlessly, what they now refer to as Ground Zero.  Ground Zero. What a strange name to give that hell. The people are holding signs and asking about their loved ones and coworkers. It saddens my heart to watch this. I can’t imagine myself having to do this. I just can’t.

“Mom, if Dad doesn’t show up soon, are we going to have to make one of those?” Amy whimpers to me, tears rolling down her cheeks.

I can’t even bring myself to look at her. Please don’t make me say it. I don’t want to say it. With tears rolling down the cheeks of my own, all I can manage to do is nod.

We are devastated. The grief and realization is too overwhelming. Amy, heads off to her room, crying, and I fall on to my knees on the floor in the living room, crying, until no more tears will fall.

The rescue workers are shown on television. They work feverishly to find and recover anyone who may be trapped. I watch all night, hoping I will see Paul, either on tv or walking through our door. You can see the workers’ exhaustion on their faces and in their bodies. But they don’t give up. They just keep going. Keep digging. Keep moving debris, passing the buckets. They look so sad and defeated when they find an air pocket and it’s empty. But it doesn’t stop them.

I can’t tell you what time I might have fallen asleep last night. I really don't have any idea or recollection. I do remember talking to one of my coworkers on the phone around 7pm. All five of us from my office made it out, and the company is giving us a few weeks to recuperate from this ordeal before we have to report to different offices throughout the city. They will let us know which ones.

Before the President addressed the nation last night at 8:30pm, the NY Police Department stated they had 78 officers missing and the FDNY had 400 Firefighters that were killed at ground zero. Those were the heroes trying to help save people's lives. There is no reason for any of this. I was still watching when Mayor Giuliani closed all of NY City Schools for Wednesday at 9:57pm.

I somehow make it to the living room couch, still wearing the same clothes that I put on after I showered yesterday. I am still waiting for Paul to come home. I don’t want to have to tell Amy that he didn’t.  I beg to God, “Oh God, please don’t make me have to tell her he is not coming home. Please don’t. Please let him be alright. Please let him come home.”

I know in my heart what I have to do. I search through my pictures. I find one of Paul when the three of us were camping.  I can’t bear to look at all those happy loving memories. I try not to focus on the picture, just on the task.   I keep reminding myself, “I will not cry. I will not cry. This is not the time to cry. Finish this first.”

On the top of a piece of paper, above the picture, I write the letters M-I-S-S-I-N-G. Under the picture I put his name, Paul Smith, then loving husband and devoted father.  Under that I write, Last Seen 86th floor, North Tower. I then add some details about his height, weight, eye and skin color and what he was wearing. Under that I write to call my cell if found or have any information.

When I am done, I realize I am breathless. I feel like someone just sucker punched me in the stomach. I think I am going to be sick. I need to lie down, go outside, run, cry, scream, hit something. I don’t know. This just isn’t right.

Amy walks in and sees me sitting on the couch, staring off into space. The missing poster is face up next to me. She glances at the poster, then at me. She is fighting back tears.

“Mom? That was a great camping trip, wasn’t it?”

“Uh Huh.”

“We should make a few more of these and go hand them out.”

“Uh Huh.”

I can’t even look at her or even respond. Tears roll down my cheek with each uh huh. We both know what each other is thinking, but neither want to say it because then it is real.

Amy takes the poster, puts it on the copier part of the printer and makes copies. She tells me to get dressed because we are going to Ground Zero to hand them out.

“NO! You are not going there, Amy! It is not a place for you. I will go and put them up. You stay here in case he comes home.” Anger lashes out of nowhere at her.

“Mom. You cannot do this alone! Let me help you. I am strong enough. I can handle this. My god, I am 15 years old! You need me to help you. You’ve been through enough already, Mom. Let me help you?!” She is just as angry as me.

We settle on both of us going. But if I feel she is in danger, she is to run back, the 12 blocks, towards the bridge. We are able to take a taxi across the Brooklyn Bridge, but then we have to walk from there. All the rest of the areas have sustained some minor to major damage.  I clutch with one of my hands my half of the stack of missing posters tightly to my chest. My other hand is holding Amy’s. The closer we get to Ground Zero, the tighter I clutch. Amy has a death grip on my hand. I don’t care if my fingers go numb; I am not losing her too.

We stop on a few corners and hang up a few posters on light posts. We hang them anywhere we can find a place to. Around Ground Zero a temporary metal chain link fence was brought in to protect both the rescue workers’ efforts and the public. We hang them on the fence. People are walking around, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen or know where their missing friend or loved one is. These people look so distraught.

“Did I look like that?” I ask myself.

Amy asks a woman who stopped us, “Excuse me, Miss? Have you seen my daughter? She looks like this.” They lady shows us a picture of her daughter. “She worked in the South Tower. She has a toddler at home.” She reaches for my hand and looks into my eyes. She is desperate for an answer.

“No, we haven’t, Ma’am. I’m sorry. But I’ll look for her too,” Amy tells the woman. I look right into her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see her.” My eyes are overflowing with tears.  “I’ll keep looking. I promise.”

Amy then shows her our poster. “Have you seen my dad? His name is Paul Smith. He worked in the North Tower.”

“No sweetie, I haven’t. But I’ll keep my eye out for him.”

Amy doesn’t lose hope. She asks everyone. I just follow her around. I am in shock by all of this. Amy is a trooper. I look at everyone. I really look at everyone. I look into their eyes, into their souls. I see things I wish I hadn’t. I find myself studying everyone’s face, body, clothing, stance, seeing if I recognize anyone at all. I don’t.

Amy and I originally planned on only doing this for several days. But it ends up being more like several weeks. Every day we say, today is the day. Each day Amy goes to school and meets me when her classes are done. My employer is extremely understanding and has given me the time with pay to search. They are busy trying to find a new office space for us to work in anyways.

Unfortunately, no one ever calls me to say they found Paul. It takes Amy and I several months to get used to life without Paul. It is three months before we plan his funeral.

A 100 days later, the fires are finally put out at Ground Zero. The disaster area covers 16 acres and has 1.4 million tons of debris. Security at airports, trains stations, bus stations, subways, sporting events, amusement parks and concerts has increased tremendously as a result of September 11. Long lines to enter and bags inspected manually or by x-ray machines are the standard. Crossing the border into America has become much harder too. Passports take months to process instead of weeks. Ids are required for everyone boarding an airplane.

I don’t know if I will ever feel the same again. But with Amy by my side, I’ll take it one day at a time.

-Elizabeth Miller