
Afterwords
I didn’t see the bodies falling. At least I think I didn’t. In that moment of panic, when death seemed entirely possible, there in my living room, two blocks from the World Trade Center, too close to figure out what was happening beyond the swirling paper and the glass shards, debating whether to run or to stay inside, I might have seen more—or less—than I remember. Many weeks later, near where the National Guard barricade had been at the end of the street, I’m pretty sure I saw vendors selling photographs of body parts. How can you trust your memory—or your sight—when you half-expect every