My birthday is September thirteenth. I don’t remember the day I turned six, only that my grandmother’s flight was canceled in the wake of events a few days prior. My recollection of that day, the eleventh, is quite different. It comes to me in fragments, but at times so crystal clear, that I find myself there again; standing barefoot in my family’s living room, a parquet maze of mahogany hues stretching for miles beneath my feet. Everything is so much bigger, so much farther away, and when I turn my head, there they are. The image of two burning buildings on TV.