Under the construction scaffolding
T aped to the windows on one side of a building
on Park Avenue and 26th Street in New York City
were hundreds of handmade posters
all on 8-and-a-half by 11 inch paper all with the same question,
"Have You Seen This Person?"

One man, pictured with his family,
was on the 67th floor of the World Trade Center
when two planes smashed into the twin 110 story towers,
eventually causing them to crumble to the ground.

A woman, pictured smiling on the beach, was on the 101st floor.
A man pictured holding his clarinet was on the 52nd floor.
Another man, pictured with a small child and golden retriever, was on the 66th floor.
One man, pictured smiling, was visiting the World Trade Center for a meeting...
The hand posters seemed endless; so many people to save:
a woman with her son,
a man with his wife,
a woman at her desk,
a guy next to his car;
some photos were just head shots
while others looked like they were taken from modeling portfolios.
Some photos were candid shots of people hanging out with friends
and some were posed.
None gave a hint that any of these people knew what would be coming on September 11, 2001
And now they were on sheets of paper
on black-tinted windows on 26th Street
Which made it look like the Vietnam War Memorial wall.
The lively faces on the hand posters would follow us through the city
everywhere we went;
they were on cars,
in store windows,
on telephone poles,
on mail boxes,
at bus stop shelters –
everywhere.
They dominated an unusually quiet city.
The faces on the fliers
stood in sharp contrast
with the exhausted and concerned expressions
of the people walking through New York City.
I love New York City!
But the George Gershwin music
that usually appeared in my head
whenever I visited
would not be playing on this day.

Three days after the attack
Charlie, an ordained minister, and I
decided we couldn't take just sitting around
listening to the news
(especially since the media,
like it always does in these situations,
seemed more concerned with naming this tragedy
than reporting objectively on it!
For the record, “America Under Attack”
won the media’s “name that disaster” game
and will now take its place with other favorites,
like “Horror in the Heartland”
and “Terror at the Ivy Walls”)

We hit the city
to see if we could help
after all, we were only a train ride away.
So we walked...
to the Armory on Lexington Avenue
to Saint Vincent’s Hospital
to the Village
following the smell of the smoldering building
following the signs –
following the faces of those lost -
to as close to the World Trade Center site
as the police would let us get.

All along our journey
as we talked to people
“where you from?” was the question
we were most frequently asked
by unusually friendly
but thoroughly exhaughsted
cops and firefighters.
“Connecticut,” we would say.
“Great, thanks,” they would say.

All seemed genuinely grateful
that people would travel to New York to help.
“I feel like I haven't left this spot in three days,”
said one cop
while at his post at the end of one of the streets
that lead to the smoking pile
of World Trade Center rubble.
At the Jacob Javits Convention Center
all the workers and volunteers went to eat and rest
and grab much needed supplies,
like gloves, face masks and food.
I asked a firefighter where the closest fire house was located
“I wouldn't know,” he said, “I'm from Kentucky.”
Cop cars from Pennsylvania, New Jersey,
Connecticut, Rhode Island
and far beyond
lined one side of the center.
A fire crew from Accokeek, Maryland,
who looked exhausted and shell-shocked, were resting by a car.

A muscular man in a New York Yankee baseball cap,
and covered in dirt and sweat,
was leaning forward and talking to another man
who had a Boston Red Sox baseball cap on,
and had a comforting hand on the guys shoulder as he listened.
Maybe this IS the end of the world, I thought.

Maybe these lively faces looking at everyone
from their places on hand-made posters
were starting to make strange things happen.
And it was under a backdrop
of a half-acre of crumbled buildings
which was serving as either a grave or living hell for about 5,000 people
who thought Tuesday, September 11, 2001
would just be another day in their journey through life.
And as we left the site
to prepare for a somber ride back to Connecticut
the faces followed us to Grand Central Station.

“I'm glad I was here,
but I don't know if we did any good,”
I told Charlie.
“Of course we did,” he said.
“We saved no one, we played no role,” I said
“but we ministered
to some people who just needed to talk,”
he said, adding,
“We showed support
just by being here
and we reinforced the fact
that people do care”

We saw the last of the faces
as we boarded the train
but I suddenly realized
the faces were not saying "save me,"
because they had to know we couldn't.
And they weren’t calling for revenge
although that point will be lost
on the politicians,
who will wrongly spill innocent blood
while confusing revenge with justice.
The faces were saying "carry on"
and that, of course, we will.
And I don't know how long those faces will stay with me
I think they will be around for awhile…
they are welcome to stay…
and the next time I go into New York City
we will all listen to some Gershwin.

Peace