Sixteen years ago today, 2,977 innocent lives were lost in what became known as the “9/11 terror attacks.” As my family mourns, we also awkwardly commemorate what we call our “second birthday”—rather than a victim, my father was a survivor of the attacks. My father found himself just five floors below the impacted area of the South Tower of the World Trade Center when the second plane hit.
The view from my father’s office on the 91st floor suggested anything but what his colleague called “a fire”—the size of the chasm, the cascading documents, and, amid the papers, a human figure leaping into the air only to descend towards the street until out of sight.
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