Like everyone, September 11 is burned into my mind a quarter of a century later.

We all have our stories of that day. This is mine.

I still have my husband’s Long Island Rail Road ticket from September 11, 2001.

It was never punched.

Three days earlier, we had moved into a newly built house in Huntington, Long Island, from my beloved New York City.

 September 10, 2001. It was 25 years ago … the day before the world changed forever, and one in which my own world underwent a life-altering change of its own.

Moving had been a decision fraught with doubt, as I was an urban creature through and through. That day, still shell-shocked from the new reality of living in the suburbs, I comforted myself knowing that I would return to the city the next day, the 11th, to finish cleaning out my apartment on the Upper West Side.

September 11th would be my husband Hersh’s first day of commuting to his office in downtown New York. My plan that morning was to take a late morning train and meet at his office at the end of the day. Stumbling around a collection of floor-to-ceiling boxes, my normal morning routine of listening to The Today Show was decidedly off-kilter. Without cable set up yet, my TV reception was limited. But I had no inkling how very off-kilter it would truly be.

When I heard Katie Couric announce the first report of the North Tower of the World Trade Center being hit by a plane, my initial assumption was that it was likely a small private plane and was an accident.

I could not contemplate the unthinkable.

Still, I wondered if the city subways might experience delays because of this incident and maybe not the ideal time for me to go into the city.

The Unthinkable

The view from Franklin and West Broadway

When Hersh stepped out of the subway at Franklin and West Broadway on his way to his office, blocks from the World Trade Center he called me to discuss the feasibility of me coming into town due to the concerning incident at the WTC.

It was 9:01am.

We never had a chance to continue the conversation because, while on the phone, a second plane hit the South Tower, and Hersh watched in disbelief as a giant fireball exploded. I listened to the crackling, and then our call was abruptly ended.

My heart was in my stomach. I knew it was no accident and that America was under attack.

Suddenly my beloved city was under attack, and I was not there. It was unbearable.

Without social media to get second-by-second news updates and limited TV, I was really in the dark, in the dark of the suburbs. Stuck in the unfamiliar suburbs by myself, boxed in my hundreds of cartons, worried about city friends, and not knowing how Hersh could get home, let alone when, was nerve-wracking.

The city shut down, suspending all transportation in and out of the city.

Eventually, Hersh joined the throngs of confused and frightened souls slowly walking uptown. By evening, limited commuter train service returned. I was fortunate to welcome him back home that evening, his suit bearing the dust and ashes that permeated the skies of New York City.

A privilege far too many would not have.

We would lean a few days later, that the husband of the couple who were to buy our apartment had perished that day in the Towers.

He never wore that suit again, and we never had it cleaned. It remains hanging in a closet as a reminder. The dust of that tragedy remains embedded in the suit.

The unused ticket remains unpunched.

And my heart remains broken, a quarter of a century on.

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2026. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.