February 26, 1993

At twelve eighteen in the afternoon a van packed with explosive was detonated on the second level of the parking garage beneath the north tower. The blast opened a crater several storeys deep, cut the power, and filled both towers with smoke to the roof. More than a thousand people were hurt. Fifty thousand walked down the stairs in the dark.

The building stood. The men who planted it had intended it to fall against its twin and bring both down, and said so afterwards.

Six people were killed. Five were at work in the building: Robert Kirkpatrick, Stephen Knapp and William Macko of the Port Authority's maintenance staff, who were eating lunch together in a room beside the garage; Wilfredo Mercado, a receiving agent for the restaurant on the hundred and seventh floor, checking in deliveries; and Monica Rodriguez Smith, a secretary who was seven months pregnant and was checking timesheets at a desk in the basement. The sixth, John DiGiovanni, was a dental products salesman who had parked his car and was walking to a meeting.

Her unborn child is named on the bronze in New York with the others, and is named here.

This memorial holds them with the dead of 2001 because the city does, and because it is the same ground. It is not the same day.