The following piece is published annually on 9/11 as a testament to never forgetting … 

It was a beautiful Tuesday. The sun was smiling with a crisp warmth. The air was a snappy fresh. The coffee even tasted especially good.

I remember. Most of us remember where we were on Sept. 11, 2001 at 8:46 a.m.. I know I do. I also remember how everything went from bright, crisp, fragrant and optimistic to dark, dank, acrid and terrifying in one second. I remember how it wasn’t about us observers, storytellers. It was about them — the victims, their loved ones, their message.

For me, a professional observer, a professional storyteller, thankfully close enough, yet far enough, yes, it was so very much about them — painfully so. I wasn’t one of them. I was lucky. I was grateful. I sought the bare honesty in the moments. I watched. They shared. I listened intently. I reported.

I was a journalist living in Fair Haven and covering Middletown for the Independent, Greater Media Newspapers. On what started out as a typical day, those victims of 9/11 and the people of Middletown manning the chaos and being the helpers ended up unwittingly, graciously, lighting a less traveled path for me. For many.

It’s this one storyteller’s perspective.

Through this one fortunate observer’s eyes and heart, it went like this …