The little fountain between the towers
Much has been written, and much more will be written, about September 11, 2001. Most of those stories come from the perspective of adults. This one technically does too. But as we approach the 25th anniversary of that day, I find myself reflecting on how it lodged itself in the mind of a 12-year-old boy from North Idaho.
Growing up, Tuesdays were always the worst day of the week. Monday still carried a sense of freshness. Wednesday marked the midpoint. Thursday was buoyed by the promise of Friday. To borrow a line from George Costanza, Tuesday had no feel.
That Tuesday had a feel.
The "Today" show was part of my morning routine. Its familiar faces and lighthearted tone kept me loosely connected to the news, even if much of it went over my head. On September 11, that changed.
Just a month earlier, I had spent two weeks visiting my aunt in Philadelphia. We packed those days with sightseeing, traveling through Washington, D.C., Delaware, and, of course, New York City.
One morning, we gathered outside Rockefeller Plaza and managed to make it onto the "Today" show. Afterward, we set out to explore Manhattan. We visited the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and countless other landmarks. Armed with several disposable Kodak cameras, I snapped what felt like hundreds of photos, though it was probably closer to 40 or 50.
The place I was most excited to see was the World Trade Center.
Years of repeatedly watching "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York" had convinced me the Twin Towers were the center of the universe. What ended up fascinating me most, however, wasn't the buildings themselves. It was the fountain in the plaza between them.
On television, the towers looked impossibly thin. Standing beneath them was an entirely different experience. They seemed endless. Looking straight up made me dizzy.
The original plan was to visit the observation deck at the top of the South Tower, but for reasons I no longer remember, we never made it up. I didn't mind. The view from the ground was overwhelming enough. I do remember stepping into the lobby and being convinced I had just entered the busiest place on Earth.
Instead, we spent more time around the fountain, plotting our next stop and taking pictures.
When our trip ended, the Twin Towers were the last thing visible on the New York skyline as we headed away. Yet the image that stayed with me wasn't the buildings. It was that "little" fountain.
Then came September 11.
By the time I climbed onto the school bus that morning, news of the attacks was already spreading. It dominated conversations on the bus, at breakfast, and in advisory class. For the first time in my life, world events, politics, and terrorism became the primary topic of discussion among middle school students.
New York was thousands of miles away, but the fear felt close. You could hear it in the voices of teachers and parents throughout the day.
Meanwhile, I found myself thinking about the fountain.
I wanted to know what had happened to the sculpture that stood at its center, the one I had photographed almost obsessively only weeks earlier. I was relieved to learn that, while badly damaged and buried beneath debris, it had survived.
That sculpture, which I later learned was called "The Sphere," was created by German artist Fritz Koenig and stood in the plaza between the towers for nearly three decades. Today, it sits in Liberty Park near the National September 11 Memorial.
The older I get, the more I appreciate what it represents.
The Sphere bears scars. It is dented, battered, and permanently changed. Yet it remains standing. It serves as a reminder of resilience, but also of fragility. Two ideas that are as different as they are inseparable.
That day was terrible. Like The Sphere, none of us escaped without a few dents and dings — whether those were physical, mental, or emotional — but we survived. We endured together as a United States of America.
Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to go take a picture of that sculpture again.