Friday morning, 14th Street Union Square subway station. Approximately 30 police officers stand at attention in dress uniform outside the underground precinct. The low ceiling makes their number seem twice as many. At 8:46 AM a bugle begins Taps. Rising from the subway platform when the first note sounds I am immediately frozen. A less aware commuter following a bit too close, bumps into my shoulder. More people stop. The bugle resonates, the sound reflects off the hard surfaces, the white subway tiles, the steel I-Beams, the concrete floors. Each note fills the space, penetrates every crevice, every corner. Above ground it can be heard as well. A low murmur. A distant ghost. When the bugle finishes bagpipes begin. Amazing Grace plays. By now a crowd clusters around the officers, silent.
Around the corner from the underground police station, stretching the entire length of the corridor, approximately 50 or so meters, are the names. They are not carved in stone, nor set in bronze. Instead, they are printed on labels. One label to one tile, and one name to each label, 2,752 in all.
In the days after 9/11, 14th Street was the boundary in which people were not allowed to pass. It is fitting that this unofficial memorial should be here, and remain here after eight years.
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