My September 11th

            On September ninth I celebrated my twenty-third birthday, which wasn't much as I had just moved into my new one bedroom apartment the week before. My new place was in D.U.M.B.O., Brooklyn, a very unique and eclectic neighborhood located at the base of the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, right down underneath the Manhattan bridge overpass (hence the acronym). One of the reasons that I loved this neighborhood so much (besides my fabulous new loft pad in an undercover community of amazing artists), was it's prime location on the water front of the East River. A quick two block walk along the quiet cobble stone streets, then squeezing through the hole in the tattered fence that guards the empty lot over grown with weeds, and I was in heaven: my very own private spot on the water, where the most amazing pink, orange and blue sunsets occurred over the Brooklyn Bridge, the borough of Manhattan, and the Twin Towers. Little did I know that my semi-private sanctuary was about to become a constant visual reminder of the most dreadful day of my life. The events of September eleventh were about to unfold in front of everyone's eyes, changing life as we knew it.
             I woke up that morning thinking it would be like any other. It was a sunny and beautiful yet unusually warm September day. I was running late, as usual, straining to hear the morning news in the living room while in the bath room preparing myself for the day. Not only was this one of the first mornings spent in my new apartment, but this Tuesday in particular marked the first week I had spent on my new job managing the business affairs for a photo stylist. As I had spent the past few years in dot com land, I was quite enthusiastic about my new endeavor. Tuesday, the eleventh, we were scheduled to be shooting a print ad for David's Bridal. Suddenly, in the other room, I heard the news anchor say that a plane had hit one of the towers.