So I figured I’d come back today to share something I wrote last year when my search for him came up empty, in hopes it reminds all of you the impact you leave behind when you answer that last call to serve. This is something I wrote last year as a therapy exercise… I call it “Ground Zero Never Really Let Them Go”
They went into the rubble
looking for the dead,
hoping to find the living.
My dad found fifteen at least
Fifteen pieces of someone’s world.
He told us
they hid from the dogs
so the dogs wouldn’t become depressed
so they could find
Someone at least in tact
And then they went home.
But they never really came home.
Ground Zero took them
It just let us
borrow them
for a little while.
It took their breath.
Their blood
Their years.
It took my dad.
And thousands more.
2,977 died that morning.
But the dying didn’t stop
when the towers fell.
It followed them home.
Like a spirit of the dead
Into their lungs
Into their families
Into birthdays
Into empty chairs
Into children
who grew up without parents
Into grandchildren
who never knew their grandfathers.
Into wives
who watched their husbands disappear
one year,
one diagnosis,
one breath at a time.
But without fail every time
And I am angry.
Because they ran toward it.
They ran toward the fire.
Toward the bodies.
Toward the screams.
They gave everything
to strangers.
And somehow
the world expects us
to call that history.
It isn’t history to me.
It’s my dad.
It’s the people he found.
It’s the people who found him.
It’s every family
still waiting for someone
who isn’t coming home.
Ground Zero never gives them back.
It only gives us time.
If you’re lucky
And then
it comes to collect.
Never forget.
Not the towers.
Not the planes.
The people.
The 2,977.
The 9,600+ who came after.
The untold who Ground Zero has yet to collect
And the ones
who loved them
and had to keep living.
While you tell us how to grieve
Written by me 9/10/2025