Another still.

All morning we stayed in the office, not sure if we should leave, or if we could, how. We were right across from Grand Central Station, where many took Metro North trains home to Westchester and Connecticut. Rumors flew from desk to desk - Grand Central is closed, now it's open, no now it's closed again. Clumps of people rushed into elevators only to return, shaking their heads. The rest of us waited, hoping subways would start running again. We all spent hours on the phone trying to connect with family, to let them know we were alright, to find out if they were, to find out if anyone knew what was going on. I couldn't get ahold of either of my siblings, both of whom worked in Manhattan at the time, but my mother had heard from both. From her sleepy rural town she became the conduit of communication. I couldn't get through to my grandmother, who lives on the upper west side of Manhattan, but finally tracked her down at one of her daughter's upstate. I was worried that she was worried, but it was my phone call that woke her up. She had no idea what was happening. (Now, five years later, an aunt has actually tried to guilt trip the rest of us about our relationship with Grandma, floating the lie that nobody had even bothered to check on Grandma on 9/11. I don't know why people think they can get away with revisionist history like that.)