Lynn Marie Rossi

All my cousin Francine wanted to ask about when I got to Georgia was 9/11. “You probably saw everything,” she said as we sat cross-legged on her bed. “I was seven,” I said. “That was a long time ago.” By then, I was ten, with only vague memories of that day: my mother talking my father out of packing suitcases; the sound of people shouting outside before my mother shut the windows, fearful of dust and chemicals.  But Francine wanted falling bodies and clouds of ash. “You’re, like, right next to Ground Zero!”  “We live on the Upper West Side,”…