Twelve years

Twelve years and two months ago, I moved into my first apartment in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side around the corner from Fairway. I didn't think life could get any better, or any more New York. I was in the land of Zabar's, Lincoln Center, and Central Park; any store I could think of was within walking distance; any kind of food I fancied could be delivered to my door; every bar was open till 4 a.m.

When you're 22 and living in New York City for the first time, these are things that matter, the things you think you'll never forget. You're in the Greatest City in the World. Life is like a Meg Ryan movie: every ride on the subway is an adventure, every cup of coffee is romantic, every stroll through a city park, a revelation. To 22-year-old me, tragedy meant breaking up with a boyfriend or bouncing a rent check or forgetting to send out a press release for my boss; I didn't expect anything worse would happen during my first year as a New Yorker.

It's hard for me to talk about 9/11, it always has been. I worked in the Mayor's Office for four years, often writing about the attack, and every word I came up with - and every word I read and edited - never made sense. It all sounded silly, cliche, and I'm so sad that it still does. Nothing I could ever say or write could express what happened, or what it was like to experience the attack from 25 or so blocks away. What's worse is, I've found myself insensitively cringing and rolling my eyes at other people's words; but at the core, I know I'm just yearning to be able to talk about it so freely. I wish I could remember without feeling like I want to completely shut down because I've just been punched repeatedly in the stomach. So instead I pretend that I've moved on, and that it's "cheesy" and "folksy" to discuss 9/11 with any kind of emotion, when really, I don't want to hear about it because I'm still not sure how to process it.

Someday I'll have to tell Jack and Nellie about what happened, and I hope I eventually find the words. Will I tell them every detail? Probably not. I'll be sure to tell them how Grumps (Evan's dad) helped me whip up a huge batch of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner that night; Evan's parents had a few friends who lived near the World Trade Center, and we welcomed them with open arms because they weren't able to go home. I'll most likely leave out how sore I felt waking up on September 12, not realizing that I'd spent the entire previous day tense with fear.

But what I'd really want them to know is that their mother, who had moved to Manhattan a just a few months earlier, a silly 22-year-old girl with dreams of being a famous writer and perhaps marrying Ben Affleck (no, really), officially became a New Yorker that day. 9/11 broke my heart, but being in Manhattan this time twelve years ago also made me see what really made New York City the greatest.