On the fifth anniversary

It's hard to be out of New York today, of all days. Everyone has their way of coming to terms with what happened in our city on 9/11, but it seems like a lot of us have to tell our stories over and over to heal.
On each anniversary, I go to work, and tune in to the reading of names while the work day starts. Inevitably, my co-workers and I end up telling each other stories about that day. Where we were when we heard the news, who we were worried about, when we heard news of our friends and family, how we got home that day. My story involves smoke and bits of charred paper filling the sky above my apartment building within minutes of the first plane hitting, a feeling of fear like I've never felt, worrying about my friend Edgar who is a firefighter, rumors of bio terrorism, responsibility for my staff, walking home with a mask on, not knowing if Mark's office was still standing, sleeping with a sheet over my head for several nights to keep the smoke from filling my nose. I was on edge for months afterward.
In retrospect, I'm grateful to be alive, I'm glad Mark was scheduled to work late that night and therefore wasn't at his office at what is now ground zero, I'm grateful Edgar is ok.
Beyond that, I still don't have many words of explanation or understanding or peace. I just have my story.