Five years ago I was working as a groundskeeper at an elite boarding school outside of Washington, D.C. I tended to the athletic fields, alone, and a large portion of my day was spent walking across acres of grass to check on this or that. It was the ideal job for daydreaming my way towards a disappointing life, and I made sure to let everyone know I'd rather be elsewhere. Everyone from laborers to teachers to security guards to random contractors got greeted by my signature shrug that, in my mind at least, said, "I don't know how I got here either." I knew precisely why, but that's something else. I'd already quit once, hauled off to Atlanta, been asked to leave Atlanta, and returned, only to be offered a promotion and a raise. Even cutting grass, it's possible to fail upwards.

By 2001, I was already a year past caring and would coerce passersby into deep, meaningless conversations or excursions to the dining hall for dixie cup coffee.

So one Tuesday morning, I was shuffling towards a field or a coffee break when I passed one of those random contractors walking briskly to his truck, so I said, "What's up?" Now these kinds of dudes are generally deadheads, too tired, hungover, or busy for chatter, but this guy stopped cold, looked me right in the face, said, "Fuckin' terrorists are flying into shit," and walked on. He looked fairly nuts, so I didn't inquire furthur, just kept on towards wherever.

To get there, I stepped off the green grass into the street, and almost immediately, I heard what sounded like a distant thunderclap and felt a slight tremor under my boots. Having just been told some cryptic news and seeing nothing but blue skies, I felt instant dread and began running toward the maintenance shop. I ran upstairs into the offices and turned to the conference room where I saw our entire staff standing in front of the television. These grown men, hard-drinking rednecks mostly, looked frightened by the images of two smoking towers. I asked what happened, and they all turned and offered a version of the same story. I watched with them until an anchor interrupted with breaking news that another plane had flown into the Pentagon. My father worked in the Pentagon.

We all ran over to the 4-story library as I tried to phone my dad, to no answer. We took the elevator to the roof and ran to the edge. We could easily see the towering plume of black smoke a few miles to the east, and I wanted to throw up or throw something. We stared at it for a few minutes. I don't remember anyone speaking. I kept trying to call my dad.

We came down from the roof, and I drove home to see if my dad was there. He wasn't, so I watched his building and the other two and kept calling. I talked to my brother and mother, neither of whom had reached him, so I kept watching his building and calling. I went out to the courtyard shared by our cluster of townhouses, most of which were home to government employees unreachable by their families as the news erroneously reported of explosions and more planes around D.C., and we offered each other hugs and encouragment.

A few hours later, everyone's missing father, mother, husband or wife pulled into the parking lot, including my dad. When I saw him, I ran outside, still dressed in my all-black uniform and steel-toe work boots, and I couldn't help but breakdown. A tough, stoic breakdown involving clenched jaws and cleared throats and pats on the back, of course.

My father and I watched his building– the one completed just 16 months from its groundbreaking on September 11, 1941 to house the planners and pencil-pushers behind the Last Great War– collapse and crumble.

Later that night, I drove past roadblocks and Stinger-armed Humvees to meet with some friends, and we tried to grasp what had happened to our city as fighter planes and helicopters circled constantly overhead. A few of them were concerned about an old friend who worked in the World Trade Center and, like so many that day, hadn't yet called to say he was okay. That's him above in his high school photo. His name is Mark. He worked high in the North Tower and loved New York City. I met him a couple times years before when we were young and without a care, but he was a close friend of my closest friends. I've spent time with his parents since that day, and they are two of my favorite people on Earth.

There is no fading memory or better understanding now than there was five years ago. I'm just glad it's September 12th again.