On this 25th anniversary of 9-11, I share a post and a poem, both written 10 years after 9-11. May the memories of all those lost -- that day or months or years afterwards because of that day -- be a blessing. “Those god-awful towers,” my father said in disgust. He wasn’t alone: we all thought they were wicked ugly, too big, and besides, they would and did block the light from our neck of the woods, three blocks away, never mind that we were underground. Down the steps to the

“Those god-awful towers,” my father said in disgust. He wasn’t alone: we all thought they were wicked ugly, too big, and besides, they would and did block the light from our neck of the woods, three blocks away, never mind that we were underground. Down the steps to the Fulton-Nassau Street station was a small arcade of stores, including our own, the Subway Stamp Shop, which my dad and grandpa ran. I grew up spending many Saturdays and holidays there, emerging frequently for