All We Have Left

by Wendy Mills

I’m still trying to formulate the perfect words that will make Ayah listen, to make him understand, as I change at Chambers Street for the local #1/9 and get out one stop later at the Cortlandt Street station. I climb the narrow brick staircase and enter the light modern hall above. People are hurrying in all directions, and I sidestep a woman carrying a green-and-white Krispy Kreme Doughnuts box, and go through glass doors past a sign reading 1 World Trade Center. The lobby is white marble, soaring windows, glass and metal. I stop next to a potted plant, feeling small all of a sudden as people hurry past me, their voices crisscrossing across the echoing space. I scratch my head, because my hijab is itchy. A guy in a suit standing on the balcony ringing the second floor points at me, and for a minute I think it’s because of my scarf, but then he starts smiling and waving and a woman behind me calls, “I’ll be right there.” Feeling silly, I bypass the line of employees swiping their ID cards at the turnstiles, and hurry over to the security line. The line moves in fits and starts, but thankfully, there aren’t a whole lot of visitors this time of morning. When it’s my turn, I give the guy in a blue blazer my school ID and best smile, and with some sweet-talking, he hands over a visitor pass card. Then I go to stand with a crowd of people waiting for an express elevator to take me up to my father’s offices, high up in the north tower.