I wasn’t there, here. I was asleep
in an apartment in Santa Monica.
I saw it on TV, didn’t smell the smoke,
flee over the bridge. I moved back a year later,
rented a row house in Brooklyn
from a man who lost his son in the North Tower.
When I moved in, I was told his son had lived
in the same house with friends, had stained
the dark wood in the living room. I was told
I could paint anything, except that dark wood.
Some nights when it was late and I climbed
the creaky stairs to bed, I’d listen for his son,
but all I ever heard were my feet on the floorboards.
Italian American Writers Blog 
Very touching made me cry Mom