Jogging along the Queens waterfront has not been the same during the course of the last year. It always brings me back to a day I will never forget.

I had just finished running an extra few blocks that morning. The air was clean and clear, as was the sky. I contemplated a boring day of covering what I saw then as some useless aspect of the primary election later that morning. That part of my job was supposed to take me to 7 World Trade Center around noon, so I had time I thought to clean up, vote myself and head downtown.

I rested along the wrought iron fence that bracketed the small patch of grass our landlords considered a lawn and struck up a conversation with the superintendent of my building. Then a neighbor yelled out, "Gary — We’re under attack . . . . They just bombed the World Trade Center!"

He knew in his heart then what it would take the rest of us a few more seconds or minutes to figure out.

I ran up to my place to turn on the TV. By then, there was no sound, but the pictures were clear as I surfed the stations looking for channels on which audio was being sent.

On the second pass, I paused on a station where the texture of the picture seemed the richest. As I looked at one of the Twin Towers burning, I saw what I thought was a helicopter come in from the left side of the screen . . . but moments later a bloom of orange, yellow and black erupted from the second tower. At that moment I was sure it was an attack and I had no more time to stand and watch.

I called my cousin, who worked in Tower One, and then I called his family. I could not reach either.

My phone rang as soon as I disconnected. The caller was another cousin from Chicago who wondered if I was OK. I told him I was fine, but had to go. I showered, grabbed three days worth of clothes and took off in my car.

The last time I saw the Twin Towers, I was driving over the Queensborough Bridge. Black smoke trailed for miles away. They looked like roman candles atop of some sick birthday cake.

I turned away and continued to drive, knowing I had to begin blocking out the reality of what was taking place at my doorstep. I believed anything was possible and that even the bridge I was on was at risk. But I, like so many others, had a job to do, so I pressed on.

As I got closer to Manhattan, traffic that was almost non-existent began to clog up. My radio was up louder than I could usually stand. As I turned onto 60th Street, the radio station’s sound effect for a breaking news story ripped through the air and the announcer said, "Tower Two has collapsed." I thought to myself "this has to be a mistake . . . maybe they just can’t see through the smoke."

The next week is a blur.

I just remember the wall of sadness and anger that fell on me at the end of the week when I finally had time to think about what really happened.

My city and my country was brutally and viciously attacked.

My name could have easily been on the list of names that would eventually grow and then shrink.

As the anniversary of Sept. 11th approaches, my job forces me to remember and reflect on the events of that horrible day. I have had to do so not just through my eyes but also through the eyes of those who lived and the families of those who died.

I know biographies of several strangers now like James Parham, George Howard, Uhuru Houston and Kathy Mazza. Their lives and the love of their families are something I will be able to tell my grandchildren about, if I am so blessed.

Over the next week, whether you were personally touched by the event or not, learn the story of one person who you never knew.