On that September night, I was too selfish and caught up in my own feelings and desires to put a stop to the seemingly impossible obstacle that lay between us. I am still haunted by the events that ended my life, haunted by the reality that I could have stopped it, that I could have saved him. I was only 22, a young, college student at Columbia University, still living under his shadow.

“Dad, what are the long term benefits of quantitative easing?”

I knew from the moment he set down his paper and looked in my direction what his response would be.

“Look, Jason, can I help you with this tomorrow? You know, I've had a long day and don’t have it in me to -”

“It’s fine… I’ll figure it out.”

It was always his answer to everything. It seemed as if I was a fly buzzing around his head. I was just another pest that he wanted to get away from. I couldn’t stand it. So I left. Walking into my room, I felt as if an ocean of anger and grief was released upon me. The dormant resentment in me was awakened again. Like slapping a sunburned shoulder, the resentment I held inside stung. Through the years of, “I’m sorry I can’t make it to your game today,” and “I promise I’ll be able to help you later,” I was once again bombarded by the reminder that any time I needed a father, I could always count on being disappointed. That is what hurt the most. I wished that, somehow, it could be like it used to be. Back when we were close, I was happy: content with life. Deep down, far beneath the layers of pain there was a dim memory of genuine joy.

My 7th birthday was the best day of my life. I woke up to the aroma of bacon and eggs drifting in from the kitchen. After eating my fill, I climbed into the Civic and we went to the Central Park Zoo. We walked through the reptile exhibit, got to feed the exotic birds and had the opportunity to play with the newly born Snow Leopard cubs. Afterwards, Dad blindfolded me with his New York Knicks bandana and took me on a journey that finished in front of a 5-star French restaurant in New Jersey called Latour French-American Cuisine.

Sitting down at the square, mahogany table, I stated proudly, "I'll take the lamb Bolligeasy please!"

"I think he means Bolognese." He said with a smirk on his face while scruffing up my hair. "And I'll have today's special, Teardrop Onion Soup."

"Alright Sir, I'll have those out shortly."

"Dad?"

"Yeah Jason?"

"What do you remember about Mom?"

“What do I remember about Mom? ...Well, she always used to pick you up and twirl you around in her arms, laughing and smiling non stop until you gave her a kiss. She really loved you, you know. More than anything in the world, Jason.”

“Do I look like mom?”

“Exactly like her. You know, now that I look at you, you have her golden brown eyes.”

To this day, I don’t know why we stopped talking about her. Maybe it hurt too much for him to remember her, more than it hurt to forget. I just know that at some point, everything began to change. Dad took down the family portraits and replaced them with newly earned award certificates. He started teaching at Columbia University as a microeconomics professor and never had time for me any more. He went from Dad to Dr. Winters and our close relationship faded away.

There was nothing in my life that I wanted more than to be close to my father again, but it felt unreachable. And on that night, I felt more alone than I ever had in my life. It hurt too badly to overlook the years of neglect and to forget what he did to me. He completely abandoned me after he started teaching. So what if he was a single dad? That’s no excuse to leave his only son in the dust to fend for himself. But below the bitterness that held me hostage, there was something burning inside my heart whispering “Forgive”.

Sitting there, on my bed, on that cold September night, tears running down my cheeks, something changed. I was sick and tired of the depression that defined my life, the bitterness that held me in bondage. I wanted to go downstairs and run into my father's arms, broken, and in need of healing. I wanted to be able to talk to him like I used to, without reserving parts of myself. But I knew that no words would form. So I transformed my feelings into print with my ballpoint pen. For four hours I wrote and rewrote the letter to my dad, expressing my sorrow and my
deep desire to fix our relationship. I didn’t know how it would help, just that I needed to do something and this was a step toward regaining the bond that we once held so tightly.

I woke up the following morning exhausted. Trudging down the staircase with groggy eyes, I looked for my dad, but only found a note lying on the kitchen counter, “Sorry Jason, I have an early meeting at David and Nelson. I’ll be home around five. -Dad”. I knew that if I didn’t give the letter to him now, nothing would happen. If I was going to do it, I had to do it then. I grabbed the keys to the Civic and started toward the World Trade Center.

Driving down the freeway thoughts were flying through my mind. What if this doesn’t do anything? What if Dad doesn’t even read the letter? He’s so busy and has so much to worry about, he won’t even care. But what if he does care? What if it gets better? Suddenly, a glimmer hope sprang up within me as I exited the freeway. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad how much I loved him. Turning the corner into Liberty Street, all of that hope was shot. I saw an enormous explosion followed by a sea of screams. A plane just crashed into the Twin Towers. My heart stopped beating. My lungs stopped breathing. Everything began to happen in slow motion and my vision went blurry. Panic overtook my body and I went into shock. Leaping out of my car, I began to sprint to the tower, tearing through my vocal cords with the cries of my heart.

“Dad! Dad! No! It can’t be happening! Dad…”

The image of the towers crumbling, the sound of sirens being swallowed up by wails of victims will forever be engraved in my mind. Lost is the only word that can describe what I felt inside that September morning. Realizing that there would be no body to be found, no funeral, no closure. My father, Robert Winters, could never know my sorrows. I, Jason Winters, would never be able to truly know my dad. I was too selfish to do it before, too consumed by my own feelings to mend what was broken, too late to save it. On that day, I lost a part of myself there at ground zero. I abandoned the last bit of hope that kept me alive inside, that gave me meaning, and let it descend into the earth to rest with my father.

Still in a daze, I slowly walked back to my car and drove, fast. I didn’t care where I ended up: I just knew I couldn’t stay, so I went to the last place that I felt joy, Latour. I ordered a bowl of Teardrop Onion soup, set it down on the table, then left my letter to my father, and myself there. And I walked away.

Looking back on that September night, I am filled with feelings of regret, pain, guilt and shame. I will never be able to salvage what I lost because my chance has come and gone. Yet, still, I continue to tell my story. Why? Because it hurts too much to forget, more than it hurts to remember.