September has meant a lot of different things to me over the years - the end of the summer holidays, the return to school, friends and homework, my dad's birthday, the beginning of autumn. I love the clear blue skies, the smell of the leaves as they start to fall and the chill of the air in the mornings. But more than anything else, for the last seven years, probably like everyone else, I have remembered 9/11. I know where I was when it happened, and how I felt as I watched those huge buildings collapse. I also remember seeing the whole of New York from the top of one of the towers, when my parents took me to New York, as a little girl. But most of all I remember Erik Isbrandtsen.
When I was 13, my parents took us to live in the States for a year. I went to school in Marblehead, near Boston, and Erik was in my 'Home Room' class. I remember him being a kind and thoughtful, popular boy who was full of fun. He loved his country, but tried very hard to understand why I loved mine as much as he did his. I often think of all the friends I made in Marblehead that year, I wonder what they're up to, whether they have children, if they're happy. So it came as a great shock when, in 2002, I found out that Erik died on the 105th floor of the World Trade Centre on 9/11. He was 30 years old.
