11 years ago (minus a couple of weeks), Husband and I were in the States for a friend’s wedding and we made a pilgrimage to Ground Zero. I remember being really spooked about taking actual photos of it. I don’t know whether it was being horrified at tourists smiling in front of the devastation, or the acrid smell of wet concrete making me feel claustrophobic, or the feeling that the dead would haunt me forever if I poked a camera near where they lost their lives.
We saw more, we saw more than we wanted to see, but this was all I took. I’m glad in a way that we witnessed at least part of the aftermath of what New York went through. Although no-one I knew lost their life, the stories that we were privy to touched me in a way I never expected. And the New York we spent those few weeks in was one suffering in extreme recovery, but also one showing the most remarkable sense of community. I hadn’t expected New York’s people to be so accommodating to a couple of strangers gatecrashing its grief – New York wrapped its arms around the people it loved in a most terrible time and there is so much grace in that.