How good of you to let us express our feelings on this day of "infamy" once again. I had flown to New York from Minneapolis the week before 9/11 to watch my daughter as she stood up for her friend's wedding on Liberty Island. I remember asking the bride's guests from Michigan if they had done any sightseeing. They had mentioned having lunch at Windows of the World in the World Trade Center. I told them I had never heard of that restaurant and told them I'd check that out the next time I came to New York. As the reception slowly died down, I walked outside and noticed a boat saying "Water Taxi - World Trade Center". I asked my daughter if we should take that rather than the subway which had to go all the way around to New Jersey and then back to New York. She looked me in the eye and said, "Mom, do you realize HOW far away I live from the World Trade Center?" She actually lived up on 117th St. which was not THAT far away, but her words kept ringing through my head that whole morning as I watched the TV at my job at North Hennepin Community College in Minneapolis. Although she worked in downtown NY, she possibly COULD have had a gig there (her comedian friends had had some kind of performance there that day); nevertheless, I kept hearing her words: "Mom, do you realize how FAR I live from the World Trade Center?" and that comforted me. I also, somehow I knew in my heart she was safe. I watched TV on campus with a young adult autistic student who was having a difficult time coping with this news. I told him to go into the library and take out his journal and record everything he was seeing and feeling at the moment. Meanwhile, I tried to get my daughter on her cell phone and, of course, could not. Hours later, she was able to get through to her dad, so I knew she was ok. She had been on her way to work on Park Ave. when someone got on the subway all covered in white. She thought it was some kind of performance art on the train. Finally, she learned what had happened and eventually walked all the way home. People were all walking home, she told me, covered in ashes, tears streaming down their faces. Of course, we didn't know what would happen next and I was ready to drive to New York and get her out. I didn't. But I visited her the month later. The "Shoes of 9/11" is a little record of that visit. I just hope the families of the victims, and the victims who survived know we will never underestimate their loss and their pain.