One. One.

Every morning I put on a blouse and ride the bus to my restaurant. I enter through the service hall and give a buenos dias to Miguel boiling water in our kitchen. Danny shouts "door" and comes around the corner, arms spilling over with dirty plates. I walk behind him into the dining room. The servers are dressed in black and buffing their sections. When Dianne finishes huffing at the man trying to modify an eggs benedict, she'll notice I'm a few minutes late. Jose will hug me and say he likes my dress. He always smells freshly showered. 

And at 8:45 I will pull a mug off a table, pour myself a cup of coffee, and walk up to the host stand. 

On this day, 10 years ago, it was a morning just like that at Windows on the World.
 But at 8:45 they died. During a breakfast shift just like any other.

2,996 people - It's like imagining a football stadium disappearing into thin air. I can't understand, I can't feel enough to do justice to a number that big.
 

I keep thinking about the The Falling Man. A single restaurant employee dressed in black and white. Of one person who woke up just like we do. One person who never came home.


[ in memory (1) on film with my Pentax k1000]