My friend Pat was caught in the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, 2001. He went to work that morning like every workday. He left the house soon after 6 a.m. and took his last train ride to work. Pat was always at work early, giving him the chance of getting home earlier in the evening to be with his family. Pat was an engineer; his major concern was the successful operation of tunnels, bridges and Port Authority terminals. He could not have anticipated playing the part of a soldier this day when he was ambushed and killed by an invisible enemy.
Night after night I dream. I dream that Pat is found alive in an air pocket. He somehow survives the collapse, is smiling, and is ready to accept my outstretched hand to be pulled out of the hole and rejoin the world. The next night I dream that Pat is high up in the tower. I give him wings and the two of us step out through a window and glide well above the Hudson River to the safety of the Jersey shore. In another dream, I discover that Pat is unconscious, but doing well in a hospital bed. Each morning I wake up to reality and, in despair, I rediscover the truth. After several days Pat has been found, so far one of only a few that has been, and he has been brought back to Middletown for his family and friends to say goodbye. I’m having a hard time giving this farewell.
I can’t remove the images; waving to Pat when he’s taking his walk with Eileen, cutting his lawn, or driving by in his car. I can’t forget our talks — anything from kids to politics to house projects. And then there’s the memory of laughing, always laughing with Pat. You couldn’t stop and talk to Pat without him making you laugh, without him making you feel good about knowing him, and without walking away feeling better about yourself. Pat always volunteered at church events, PTAs, coaching, and helping out with his children’s activities. You see, Pat was always one to lend a helping hand. We have heard from survivors that Pat stayed behind to make sure that others got out.
I read that the Talibans hate Americans and want to kill us. There was nothing to hate about Pat; there was nothing there but love.
God gave my friend Pat wings, and he glided from the tower to heaven.
Al Terry
Middletown