It is a beautiful day, today. Clear skies; the rains have damped the dust inferno at the battery. Were it not for the rent fabric of a wounded sky, for the pervasive dance of buildings toppling to ground, for the insistent memory of the disappeared and fallen demanding shape in consciousness, it would be possible to take this for a normal day. Itself, the weather’s beauty, for now and spring are New York’s gentlest seasons, the blue and yellow daylight a monument of foreboding: clear weather, no delay in flight—the perfect day for a coordinated attack. In the park, sunlight falls on readers open books, women’s bright faces, happy chatter, a man with burlap on his face, homeless, apparently, wanting sleep. The every-day pathos of the city. Today is my first full day back at work.

I was here on Thursday, but when word came in Grand Central Station and surrounding buildings were being evacuated, I left. Not wanting to wait and see if a building would come down around me, or to find myself in the chaos of a general evacuation. North of Union Square, a mile and a half south of here, a policeman told us to turn around and walk the other way. I told him I lived “down there.” He said, “You see that car? There’s a bomb in it.” I thanked him and did as I was told, heading east on 18th Street to continue south on Park Avenue. A woman walked in a chain of holding hands with her three daughters, coming toward me. I told her not to bring her children there. She thanked me. Her accent was British.

It was not until I reached the restricted area below 14th Street that I felt safe again. North of there, people didn’t quite seem to understand what was happening. It was noisy, congested, chaotic.

We had dinner that night, our first sit-down home-cooked meal. Spaghetti, wine and salad. The TV was off, and so was the radio. It was possible to talk. And then, later that evening, the subway rumbled by. The city insisting on life.