One minute

I see him sitting down the way from me in a somber mood with his hands clasped tightly and his worn out ball cap shading his dark eyes from the late afternoon sun. He is sits there alone, yet he is here along with hundreds of other observers bracketed in one moment of time. He sits here between the east and west gates silent and still frozen in time.

Through the crowd I notice him with his head bowed low.
I wonder what he is replaying over in his mind. Possibly it’s a scene that was once reported many times throughout that particular day five years ago. A scene that occured at 9:02am.

He remains still for quite some time with his eyes fixed on the ground beneath his feet. Eventually he slowly he rises to stand as he grabs the nearby railing balancing himself as he catches his breath. The sight of his breath billowing out of his dry mouth only makes this autumn day a bit chillier.

Paying no attention to those around him, the gentleman faces westward, placing the memorial pool at his back and the sun directly on his wrinkled face. As he stares at the street that lay before him I wonder if he sees any semblance to the way he is standing. Looking west, the way the street is directed, he is conveniently turned away from the pain and sorrow which he and I are both standing on. The street easily carry's those feelings away towards the setting of the sun.

With ease the older gentleman turns around and slowly starts walking my way. Heading towards the monumental 9:01 east gate, which I am closer to than he, each step is slow and small.

With two different minutes in the nine o'clock hour on them, the gates stand tall imposing shadows over the green grass and dark shallow water. The one minute between each gate can easily make the longest minute of this gentlemen’s life as he continues my direction step by step.

A large crowd catches up behind the man as they frantically try to keep pace with what looks to be an official tour guide directing them. The older man soon falls hidden into the crowd unable to keep their pace as he keeps steady and unobtrusive. Pace though, is the last thing on his mind today.

The group of onlookers stops just short of where I am sitting to listen intently as the guide tells them different facts about the entire memorial. Emerging from the crowd though is my subject, the older man.

As he walks right by me I appear distracted and not fixed upon his movements. But for him, anyone standing within five feet of him is non-existent today. Instead his mind is filled with pictures and thoughts. Images flash through his mind about as swift as his pace to the east gate.

Parallel to this man lays a quarter-inch deep pool of chilly waters. This pool is measured to be the exact width of the streets that lay outside each towering gate. The streets that carry individuals to this place are also the paths to which the painful memories can be carried out.

Shortly after the older man walks past me, a child runs towards him and nearly misses him as she stops abruptly at the edge of the water. She reaches deep into her coat pockets pulling out small change to throw towards the middle of the reflecting pool. With her parents walking behind her they reveal a smile after her gesture of innocence, a smile that possibly means a thousand different things.

A smile though is not evident on this older gentleman. I see him shoot a quick glance over his shoulder inquiring what just happened behind his back.

Interrupting the silence of the afternoon sun, neighboring churches bells begin to ring eight times. I wonder if each one of those ringing of the bells represents 21 different individuals who died on this spot five years ago. I wonder if one of the 168 people who died here knew this older gentleman somehow.

As the older man moved toward the end of the reflecting pool he stops to look up at the imposing tower that stands before him. He could be staring that the cloudless sky but somehow I think he is looking at the time imprinted on the gate- 9:01

Leaning his back against the east gate, the older man looks westward now. I can’t help but notice him catch a glimpse of the empty chairs to his left, then the symbolic survivor tree on his right.
I sense that this gentleman has been here many times before.

Pretending to be unaware of this man I move in closer to the scene, but keep my eyes in the pool to my right. How can such a shallow pool look so deep yet so calming?

As I close in on the presence of this man a frightening scene appears before me. A sight I have never seen before at the memorial. Embalmed on the gate are an innumerable amount of handprints. Across the width of the gate and reaching up nearly seven feet tall these handprints reach out. Eerily, I look over at the gentleman wondering if he knows what is on the wall he is now leaning against. I can’t help but imagine that each of these handprints belongs to one of the 168 people. How strange to see those reaching out to this gentleman asking for help. If not for help, those hands reach for support in holding this gentleman up who has prayed non-stop for these individuals.

Here at the gate he closes his eyes turning his face up to the sky. The sun has lowered some, but still shines brightly upon his face. It is here that I see a teardrop fall from his closed eyelids.

I slowly turn around and walk the length of the reflecting pool again, and pass through the west gate. I turn around and try to catch one more glimpse of this man, only to realize he has disappeared as quickly as I have left. Not as quickly though as the memory of one day five years ago.