Somewhere Between Summer and Fall

Twenty-five September mornings have come and gone since a clear blue sky became part of our collective memory.
This is for the people who were lost, the people who ran toward danger, and the people who reached for one another.

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Somewhere Between Summer and Fall

By Kerry Ann Wiley

September 11th,
somewhere between summer and fall,
the clock struck,
and time stopped.

Towers bent and folded,
erupted in flame,
and a blue September morning
would never look the same.

People ran down.
Others went back
for those still inside.

Through fire and smoke,
through stairwells and streets,
people stayed.
They carried.
They climbed.

A hand reached for a hand.
A stranger carried a stranger.

Sirens cried.
Ash fell.
Names were called
into the smoke.

And somewhere,
a phone kept ringing.

September 11th,
somewhere between summer and fall,
the clock struck,
and time stopped.

Morning became afternoon.
September became October.
Children grew up.

Twenty-five summers.
Twenty-five falls.
Twenty-five September mornings.

The skyline changed.
The years moved on.
The names remained.

Do we remember
the hands reaching
through the smoke?

The ones who stayed,
the ones who carried,
the ones who climbed?

Twenty-five years gone.

September 11th,
somewhere between summer and fall,
the clock struck,
and time stopped.

Twenty-five years later,
morning comes again.

And still,
we speak their names.

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We honor the lives lost, the lives forever changed, and the people who answered fear with courage and compassion.

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Author’s Note

Twenty-five years later, the images of the towers, the smoke, and the ash remain part of our collective memory. We also remember the people who moved toward danger, helped coworkers and strangers down stairwells, carried those who could not keep going, and climbed floor after floor.

I wrote this poem to remember both what was lost and what people gave to one another in the middle of that morning. I am, and always will be, a proud New Yorker.

KAW

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