Liberty Plaza, near the World Trade Center, lay covered in dust and debris on September 11, 2001. The sky that day was a bright blue, a stunning contrast to the horrors unfolding below. It was a day marked by loss and an eerie beauty that lingered in memory.

Weeks later, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine hosted a memorial service for Windows on the World employees. Blue hydrangeas and delphinium were used in floral arrangements, evoking the city’s resilience and the personal memories of that day. As a florist in New York, I navigated this loss through the language of flowers, working at a high-end business and visiting the North Tower’s 107th floor.

I was fortunate to be off that morning and did not lose someone close to me. It took years, a thousand origami cranes, and significant personal growth to express my feelings in writing. Grief builds as life goes on, yet there’s gratitude for every day.

I’ve relocated several times, held various jobs, secured a mortgage, married, and started showing my stepsons the art of cooking fried rice. Friends have moved, loved ones have passed, and life continues amidst change. During the pandemic, I found myself unexpectedly at the forefront.

Pedestrians ran from falling debris as the South Tower of the World Trade Center collapsed. People donned makeshift masks to shield from dust rattling through the air. The deep blue sky bore witness to the past and the present.

My love for the city started 15 years ago when I moved from Ohio, attracted to its landscape more than anything else. I enjoyed disappearing in the crowd, finding both solitude and inspiration amid Manhattan’s skyline.

Despite an initial career in journalism, where the vocabulary felt harsh, I found renewal in flowers, attending Parsons School of Design to become a florist. The wholesale flower market on East Twenty-Eighth Street became a dreamscape full of vibrant names — lisianthus, hypericum, delphinium.

Working in high-end floristry introduced me to a new clientele, and yet I realized the disparity between the beauty I loved and the people who could afford it. Discovering florists’ challenges, such as thorns and formaldehyde in foam, was an education.

On September 10th, bouquets of purple delphinium graced the rooms of Windows on the World. The hidden networks below stairs held the heart of the restaurant, a team whose diversity and kindness balanced the grandeur above.

Rescue workers cleaned on the West Side Highway as smoke billowed. Firefighters began clearing rubble from the North Bridge and nearby buildings.

However, on September 11th, the restaurant turned into a scene of despair. Watching from my Brooklyn apartment, I saw the destruction as smoke poured from the towers. Fumie, my friend, narrowly avoided disaster.

We learned 73 employees were lost, with survivors sharing stories of smoke-filled, scorching rooms lacking water. In their final moments, they turned to flowers for temporary relief.

Photos of missing people lined hospital walls. Survivors left messages in the ash.

The memorial service at St. John the Divine was emotionally charged and filled with elaborate arrangements. We faced the task of channeling grief through flowers. At the service, I recognized only a few names — a painful reminder of loss.

Compulsively reading articles about 9/11 became my penance. The New York Times revealed stories that haunted many, including the slow demise in smoke-filled rooms. The staff turned to flowers, seeking solace.

Reflecting on the previous morning, I remember light filling the rooms, bleaching colors in vibrant flowers. Fumie and I took solace in a mirrored room, a stolen moment above the city, unaware of impending tragedy.

We parted from the staff, descending the elevators, not knowing we reached Earth for the last time without the looming shadow of disaster. Together, we shared hopes for simple pleasures amidst the beauty of the florals we left behind.

For Fumie and myself, life resumed, marked by changes and new responsibilities. The sudden absence of Windows on the World echoed our personal journeys and the shared endurance of New York.

Today, I am dedicated to an organization strengthening Asian communities. My writings now include a novel and a collection of essays, each exploring dimensions of life shaped by profound experiences.