Reflections on 9/11: Flowers, Grief, and Resilience

Liberty Plaza, near the World Trade Center, was left covered in dust and debris on September 11, 2001.

Twenty-five years later, the vivid blue of the sky on that day continues to haunt memories. The sky turned to autumn as the smoke cleared, revealing the void where the towers once stood.

Weeks later, efforts to honor lost lives through a memorial service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine were underway. The décor included blue hydrangeas and delphiniums. For many, 9/11 remains inseparable from such floral tributes.

At the time, I was working in New York’s high-end floral industry. The job allowed entry to the city’s wealth via service entrances and rides to the 107th floor of Windows on the World. I was fortunate not to be there or lose someone close that September morning.

Processing that event took time; two years passed before I could write about it. Eighteen years later, reflections surface in writing again, revealing how grief accumulates over time.

Life has continued with both joys and losses. I’ve moved, changed jobs, married, and experienced personal losses. A friend moved back to Japan, parents’ health deteriorated, and I’ve faced a pandemic on the front lines — unexpected roles for a writer.

Pedestrians on Church Street ran from falling debris during the South Tower’s collapse. Dust blanketed the air, forcing people to use makeshift masks made from clothing.

Today, the blue sky remains unchanged, reminiscent of that morning 20 years ago.

The essay I wrote long ago speaks of my affection for New York City, a love born from its urban landscape. I moved from Ohio to write, drawn by Manhattan’s vertical majesty.

Once able to retreat into a crowd, New York taught me to find silence amidst its noise. Writing became an auditory endeavor, crafting sentences like tunes.

I let go of my childhood geography, but memories of Ohio eventually seeped into my novel, revealing unexpected tenderness toward the rural landscape.

The move sparked cravings for rural elements, yet I sought new adventures in the city. An urge to escape mundane typing jobs led to floristry.

Reading about extravagant tree decorations inspired my floral career. The Parsons School of Design provided lessons in floral design, despite challenges like knife fear and Lyme disease risks.

Wholesale visits offered a dreamlike experience, a break from my college-town backdrop. Names of flowers — lisianthus, hypernicum — evoked power akin to divine figures.

In contrast, journalistic jargon sounded harsh and mechanical.

Eventually, I secured part-time work at a Chelsea studio. While workplaces might charm temporarily, those able to afford luxury items often proved less likable.

Ultimately, my role as a florist mirrored my previous temp experiences, albeit harsher and less profitable.

My duties led to a day spent on the 107th floor on September 10th, entwined with purple delphiniums.

The floral studio’s efforts opposed nature’s order; florists kept arrangements fresh between services.

Flowers often attracted consumer disrespect — leftover gum and stolen blooms in restrooms.

The sun’s intense glare wilted even hardy flowers, demanding constant upkeep.

Yet, the hidden machinery of restaurant operations intrigued me — the unseen labor responsible for seamless service.

Staff recognition fostered kindness towards us, evident in elevator attendants’ admiration and waitstaff’s gestures of goodwill.

Despite occasional mishaps, like inadvertent orchid scorching by a helpful dishwasher, working environments bred appreciation for floristry’s beauty.

On September 11th in Brooklyn, I witnessed the towers ablaze from my apartment window. A low-flying plane struck the second tower as chaos ensued.

Nearby, a man reacted physically to the tragedy, vividly expressing the attack’s impact.

Fumie was headed to work but delays at another restaurant spared her presence.

Studio arrangements intended for Windows on the World were dismantled amid news of staff losses.

The survival story of the executive chef, spared by an eyewear fitting, underlined the randomness of fate.

Against everything, life continued. Weeks later, we reengaged in tasks for a memorial service filled with floral emotional currency.

Over the summer, investigative efforts reconstructed events inside the towers using voicemails and interviews.

An earnest effort to understand bore painful accounts for many, including accounts from Windows on the World.

On September 10th, the sun’s brilliance contrasted the tragedy that followed.

Work on the 107th floor involved meticulous care for flowers—these elements ultimately frittered away on September 11th.

Connections made with the staff on-site revealed mutual respect and routine familiarity.

In hindsight, relationships forged in those environments remain poignant reminders.

The collapse ushered strange shifts; floral arrangements transformed retrieval mechanisms in the doomed restaurant.

Fumie and I departed, innocence undisturbed, until all vanished the next day.

The abrupt loss led to new pursuits — leadership roles at a nonprofit focused on Asian communities alongside established literary works.