Remembering 9/11: A personal reflection on loss and kindness

This date marks an anniversary.

While anniversaries frequently bring celebration, they can also be moments of reflection. This particular date is not one for festivities. Instead, it calls for a moment of stillness and remembrance—honoring those who "slipped the surly bonds of Earth" and touched the face of God.

I had personal connections to three individuals who perished on that day. Remarkably, all three were named John, and each was located on the upper levels of the World Trade Center.

Envisioning their ordeal is profoundly difficult. In an odd way, I find comfort in the possibility that the plane struck their location and their passing was immediate. The alternative—picturing them caught by blistering heat, forced to leap or awaiting the towers' collapse without any escape—is something I prefer not to dwell on.

However, even in the wake of devastating tragedy, something can emerge from the wreckage. That does not erase the anguish or fill the void left behind. But recovery is possible. Goodness can endure. Circumstances can improve.

I had relocated to Arizona in August 2001, merely a month before the attacks. When the planes hit the towers, I was speaking on the phone with a coworker at FXDD, whose workplace sat two blocks north of 7 World Trade Center.

I came back to New York in November and visited our building, which now faced the debris field. The smell of scorched electrical wiring was unforgettable. The mountains of steel and concrete appeared as though they could never be cleared away. Trucks formed a continuous line, loaded up, then drove off to wherever the wreckage was taken—debris that almost certainly held fragments of those who had perished.

Yet work had resumed. People were moving throughout the city. I gathered with market colleagues, but instead of handshakes, we embraced when we greeted each other. I heard their accounts. For many, those accounts involved attending funeral after funeral. The financial industry had endured a severe blow, especially at firms like Cantor Fitzgerald.

Following one such gathering, I headed to catch a bus to my parents' residence in New Jersey, located near the Garden State Parkway. It wasn't extremely late—around 7:00 in the evening. When I attempted to board, the driver stopped me and informed me that the final bus serving my stop had left. His route concluded several exits before mine.

I stepped down from the bus. I reflected on the countless individuals who had departed their homes on September 11 and never returned. I recognized that my predicament was nowhere near as severe as theirs. I would locate an alternative way. I would eventually get home.

As I began to walk off, the bus driver exited his vehicle and caught up with me.

"I'll take you home," he said.

Even now, recalling that simple gesture of compassion brings tears to my eyes. It influenced the way I have attempted to live my life ever since.

When we arrived at what was supposed to be his final stop and the last passenger departed, I moved up to the front seat. The driver and I conversed as he continued along the Parkway toward my exit. We discussed the attacks, the lives lost and the city we had just left behind.

Once we eventually reached my stop, I expressed my gratitude and tried to give him a gratuity. He declined. We embraced, and I got off the bus.

I had arrived home.

On an anniversary like this one, we remember the lives that were lost and the lingering sorrow. But we should likewise recall the decency that persisted—the empathy, humanity and small acts of generosity that helped people navigate through the darkness.

That evening, through the generosity of a single bus driver, I witnessed the phoenix rise from the ashes. May John, John and John rest in peace and may God keep those they left behind safely in the palm of His hand.