I saw its huge shadow first, then the flashing white tail feathers and matching head of a bald eagle as it swooped into our yard scattering squirrels like autumn leaves. We see eagles a lot these winter days as they fish for shad on the river, but it is rare to see one so close.

When we first alighted in the river valley, the sight of an eagle brought a rush of delight, pure joy at the vision of such grace in flight, such power and beauty combined. It still evokes these feelings but with them attends a new memory of a threat from above, the silver-bellied jets that tore our city apart. This is the legacy of September 11 for those of us who survived with only emotional scars.

I had thought the weight of “post-traumatic stress” was lifted. What I am learning is that it is a floating scar that re-appears with triggers. My triggers are airplanes (even large birds) overhead, loud noises, blue sky.

This week our city neighborhood of Tribeca returns its children to the school that sits in the former shadow of the World Trade Center. Although fears about the air quality in and around the school have been allayed by rigorous and independent testing, some of the younger children will not be returning to this site for a while. But the middle-schoolers will troop back to their classrooms, past the devastation that was their neighborhood. 

The children are mostly gleeful about this return, and so am I on a conscious, thoughtful level. It is the school we wanted our kids to attend. They had to survive a screening of interviews, test scores and teacher recommendations to be admitted. (Yes, in a public school.) The building itself is new and gleaming, quite unlike the temporary quarters they have been housed in since the 11th. There is a gym, a playground, a library our community built, book by book. 

In a meeting to prepare parents for the return, a psychologist from NYU laid out the emotional map of trauma on a blackboard. As she spoke I distanced myself from her words, “anxiety, isolation, sleeplessness, triggers.” But when I looked up at the board I could not deny my identification with all or most of the responses. I began to worry that my daughter’s anticipated joy would soon be obliterated by the sight of her mother in a pool of emotion on the floor of the cafeteria. Would I be able to walk back through those doors and feel safe again?

The trick, I’m told, is to revisit the scene in order to show your psyche that the terror has ended. Our minds go to avoidance mode to protect us. My coping mechanism will be the support of family and friends and the knowledge that our worst fears about that day were not realized. Our family did survive and our school still stands, a newly safe haven on the banks of the Hudson.

Blue sky is still a trigger for me; while others see its peaceful beauty, I see it ripped apart by a 767 on a collision course with steel. The sun-blocking towers are gone now, but they have left an open wound of blue sky in their place. It will only be repaired by directing our eyes upward, acknowledging the fear and moving on.