My apologies to all of you, but this will not be humorous. It’s not even about birds, although it is about wings: airplane wings; angels’ wings; the wings of the rising phoenix of hope. There are thousands of stories that are more important than mine, but this is my story, and I feel compelled to tell it to you.

On September 11, 2001, I departed the ferry at the World Financial Center, and proceeded, as I had done every day, to walk toward my office on the Eastside of the Financial District. My trek takes me across the bridge over West Street, emerging alongside the north wall of Tower #1, and across the WTC plaza. For some reason, probably force of habit, I always glance at my watch when I get to WTC 1. It always says the same thing: 8:45. The day before, my hip had begun to ache, for no apparent reason. I thought the walk to the office would do me good, since at this age, my philosophy is to try work through this kind of pain. But at the last minute, I decided to take my walk at lunchtime instead, when I wasn’t carrying a heavy backpack. I turned back, and got on a bus. It was from the bus window, one block away, that I saw the first plane hit. I looked at my watch. 8:45.

Four blocks to the south, the bus could go no further, and we started walking down West Street, numb at the carnage and debris lying everywhere, and thinking, “what a devastating accident”. I heard jet engines flying right above me and turned to witness the second strike with unspeakable horror. Not knowing what else to do, I just kept walking. It was then that I realized my hip was no longer in pain. In the last year of his life, my father’s hip hurt him so much, that he was unable to walk more than a block. I believe with all my heart that he is my Guardian Angel.

I still relive the scene in my dreams. The sound. The smell. The terrible brilliance of the colors of the explosive flames. The dream came to me again last night. But this time, it was different. Instead of the horrifying, screaming whistle of jet engines, I heard the gentle whisper of what I somehow knew was the beating of thousands of angels’ wings.

Since September 11, 2001, I have heard so many stories like this one. Some a thousand times more miraculous. Some without such a hopeful ending. Like everyone else, I am irrevocably changed. While I am heartbroken and saddened by the deaths I witnessed, I now find profound joy in the simplest things. The branches of my cedar tree after a rain are now something that I sink my face into, letting the sweet earthy scent replace memories of burning things. The words, “I love you, Mom” are the notes of the greatest symphony ever written. Feeding the birds, once an avocation, has now become a mission. A mission to support and contribute to life even in its tiniest forms. I’m more willing to do things for others, and more appreciative of what others do for me.

Every morning, when I open the door to replenish the feeders and birdbaths, the mourning doves fly up from the ground to the trees. I smell the fragrance of the forest, see the branches gently stirred by their flight. But what I hear is the sound of angels’ wings.