On 9/11 after I heard the noise of the plane hitting the WTC, I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a gray t-shirt and went downstairs to the community TV to see the news. I never changed my clothes that day. We were told to evacuate the building, and a group of us walked around lower Manhattan trying to find a hospital where we could give blood. I ended up walking to a friend’s place on the Upper West Side because our building, on Maiden Lane, was below 14th Street. For a whole week, all I had was my gray t-shirt. Years later, I was doing laundry and noticed that the t-shirt was threadbare and torn. I threw it in the trashcan in the laundry room. But a few minutes later I pulled it out. I have to keep this shirt; there are too many memories attached.
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