We did not live far, maybe a brisk fifteen-minute walk away. We heard the first plane low, right over us. We witnessed the second crash from the rooftop.
The sky was angel blue.
Then, the buildings collapsed — a deep, forceful, thunder-like sound, and it cut through me. I close my eyes now and I still sense it: the dust, the wind carrying some of the broken glass to us.
The smoke lasted weeks.
For months after, at night, we slept listening to power-saws and hammering.
Close to dawn, as the city quieted for a few hours, whispers and murmurs manifested around me.
Strangely, or not so strangely, I saw doves on our rooftop, really, doves. As if they kept vigil over the sight.
Stay strong, New York.
Talking About Colombia 
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