Hazlett on Nov. 24, 2001: Closure found during visit to Ground Zero

Normally, I try to vary the topics of this column, knowing nobody wants to read the same thing twice. So even though we all have been besieged with news from New York City since Sept. 11, forgive me as I write about it one more time. You see, last week I was at the edge of Ground Zero, and want to share my thoughts with you. I was in New York for business, and during the flight, I wrestled with whether going to the site was appropriate. In my heart, I knew I needed to do something — more than give blood or donate money. As an American, I wanted to pay tribute, to make a silent memorial to honor those who died. Maybe it would help me come to grips with the grief I have felt. I didn't tell anyone about my plans. But a friend who lives in New York brought up the subject. 'It's something we all have to deal with,' she said. 'We must face this tragedy head on.' So, on a sunny November afternoon, we walked in silence to lower Manhattan. Traffic is diverted around the area where the World Trade Center stood. Vehicles, except for official use, are prohibited. Nonetheless, the streets are jammed with thousands of people. In fact, there are so many people walking to and from the site, it is impossible to stop without getting stepped on. The heavy flow of pedestrians moves at a slow but steady pace. The actual Ground Zero is blocked from public view. Long, green mesh tarps have been put up around the perimeter, blocking an eye-level view, but people have ripped holes in the mesh for a look inside. It seemed so undignified; like a peep show.There are no tarps, however, tall enough to block the sorrowful view of the complex's few remaining floors. Mere stories remain, but they are still quite high. The structure's metal framework slides downward as if the building itself is weeping and leaning inward, with no strength or will to stand up straight. The insides of the structure — staircases, wiring and equipment — just hang there, dangling. Oh my God, I thought. This is more awful than I ever imagined. It is truly unspeakable horror, and I felt ashamed to be staring at it. Cranes removed twisted pieces of steel while hoses sprayed plumes of water on fires that are still smoldering. Television has broadcast these images for the eyes, but protected our other senses. From blocks away, I could smell a strong odor of smoke, and I was alarmed to hear long and loud crashes of falling debris. Nearby, a young boy, about 14, walked with an older woman, presumably his mother. Her face was a mask of resolve, but the boy was crying. Did they know someone who died at this place? I should not have come here, I thought. The victims deserve respect and their families deserve privacy. I had come in search of meaning, but instead found disgust. Vendors were selling watches, hats, and red-white-and-blue lapel pins. People were taking photos of themselves in front of the site. Young girls walked in groups, chewing gum and talking. I expected to find an understanding of my grief at the site, but I was wrong. I turned to leave and headed down a street lined with posters. The faces in the posters were smiling, but the messages were mournful. 'Looking for my best friend,' said one note under a photo of a beautiful young woman in a bridal gown. 'Father and husband missing. Last seen on 84th floor,' said another of a man with two little boys. Amidst this awful setting, a bagpipe began to play. The melody brought the pain in my heart up to my eyes. Crying, I walked toward the music, coming from a church set up as a shelter for rescue workers. Sitting near the entrance was a fireman. He looked as sad as I did. We locked eyes and in that split second, we connected. Without ever having met, he knew what I was feeling. He knew because he felt the same sorrow. I mouthed the word, 'thanks.' I wanted to add, 'Thanks for being a fireman. Thanks for going into this hell every day to recover the dead. Thanks for being a hero.' But the crowd did not stop and I passed on by. Those extra words weren't necessary. I knew he knew. And in that flash of sorrow shared with a stranger, closure finally arrived. Get opinion pieces, letters and editorials sent directly to your inbox weekly!