twenty three

for my new york kids.

I was barely eleven, but I remember how perfect the weather was that day. The window of our Brooklyn apartment was cracked. It didn’t take long before we noticed the black soot that had made its way across the river and landed on the edge of the sink.

After hours spent in the school auditorium—wondering if my mom was okay—there was a sigh of relief. I know some kids who never stopped holding their breath.

Here’s to all the New York kids who were robbed of their innocence that day.