Like that day four years ago, I woke up this morning and went directly to the kitchen and switched on the radio.

The Names. The siblings of those who perished are reading the names. They are reading the names and saying so much more.

A woman just read the name of her twin sister. Her twin. As a twin, this makes me cry. The  voices are beautiful. Some read clearly with no obvious grief in their voices. Others can barely get the names out. Slowly, haltingly, with emotion in their voices, many break down when they get to the their siblings name. Some mispronounce a name. They apologize or say "Excuse me" and I cringe for the family of that person – listening in the stands at Ground Zero or at home watching the TV.

Each reader ends with the name of his/or her sibling. Some add words like: "See you, bro." "We can see your smile and hear your laughter." "I would give up tomorrow for one more yesterday with you." "We love you and we miss you. " "Shake it easy, Sal." "Your spirit is in me each and every day."  I know you always look over me." "We will see you in heaven." "We know you are watching over us."  "We miss you and your contagious chuckle." "My son kisses your picture every day." "I see your face every day in the mirror." We cannot wait to be with you again."

I know from my work with the FDNY that the siblings were deeply grateful to be asked to read the names of their brothers and sisters. Many feel that their grief went  unacknowledged.  Few recognized the unrelenting grief that a sibling feels. One sibling told me: "I still have pain everyday. People look at me and say, ‘Still?’" I just heard this woman read her brother’s name. And she added: "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

It is 9:45 and they are at the end of the D’s: Duarte. Duda. Duffy. Dukas. Because of my work with the FDNY, I recognize many names and I cherish the names I have typed out on my keyboard, the names of those whose family members I have talked to on the phone, the names of those whose life stories I have researched and written.

I am waiting for the names of those I know who died that day, whose wives I see at PS 321, at Starbucks, at the nail salon, and on the streets of Seventh Avenue. I observe them, monitor their moods, their haircuts, watch their children grow, wonder how they are doing, and know that I can barely fathom what they have been through

Last year on the night of September 11th, I saw the wife of a man who died that day, creating a beautiful mosaic outside of her brownstone. It was midnight and the Tribute of Lights was visible in the sky above her.   

The F’s are being read now. Fredo, Flannery, Fagin…I am waiting to hear David Fontana’s name…I just heard it. It went by so quickly. Too quickly. I don’t want to get beyond the F’s.  I want to hear his name again.

The third moment of silence begins to mark when the south tower fell. A bell rings three times. On the radio, the sound of wind, the noisy sound of silence: "Hello Darkness my old friend, I come to talk with you again…"

And then back to the simple incantation of the names. So powerful, so beautiful, so moving. And the heartfelt words added by the siblings. Simple sentiments of grief. 

There are so many ways to say the same thing: I miss you. I love you. Nothing is the same without you.

As one brother just said, "Thanks for the memory, kiddo."