My uncle is a ghost

In the distance, outside the window of the bedroom I grew up in, rises a tall, narrow, sleek corporate Gothic-style tower with columns of vertical windows and a…

In the distance, outside the window of the bedroom I grew up in, rises a tall, narrow, sleek corporate Gothic-style tower with columns of vertical windows and a grey-silver carapace. Its design, base and architect (Minoru Yamasaki) match New York's World Trade Center twin towers, just half the height. On the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I found myself thinking about the view outside my window. The specter of 9/11 has hung over my entire life.

I was born in 2005, still during the ramp-up of the War on Terror. My sister was born two months after the towers fell. On the morning of 9/11, my uncle was in the North Tower when it collapsed. The death of my uncle has always been a tricky subject to broach. Because of that, how I have processed this family tragedy - and the broader implications of the attacks of 9/11 - has always been fragmented. It has impacted all of us in our own ways.

When I don't know what to think, I write. For this subject, I feel I can do neither. My uncle is a ghost. I've tried to piece together his final days. They haunt me. The week of Sept. 4, he was on vacation with his siblings, parents and my mother. In the photos, he's vivid, full of life. He jokes about life insurance at 25 for his new job. On Sept. 8 or 9, he goes back to New York early for work.

That morning, he heads to the 106th floor of the North Tower for a business meeting. Finally, he feels the impact, coughs on the smoke, and emails his sister goodbye. 부모가 죽으면 산에 묻고 자식이 죽으면 가슴에 묻는다. It's a Korean proverb. When a parent dies, they are buried in the ground; when a child dies, they are buried in the heart. They never found his body. I did not know Peter; I cannot tell you how funny, popular, quirky or anything he was. But I feel him. I feel his ghost.

In his images I see my father, I see myself, and I see the darkness where he is buried in my father's heart. I wonder how much of him could be buried in mine. The terror attacks of 9/11 stole from me an uncle. A man I've come to know through disparate photographs, memorabilia and stories, all now mired in a heavy layer of both nostalgia and grief.