Francis X. Reagan

"I was in the North Tower with John McKenna," was all Frank would say about where he was on 9/11.

He never said anything else about who lived or who died, who he saved or who he couldn't save. Just, "I was in the North Tower."

Then his youngest grandson asked him to tell part of his story.

There were so many things he could tell him.

He'd helped so many people out of the buildings and he could still see their dust covered faces over the bandana he had tied over his mouth and nose to keep it at bay. He and John had, together, led people, helped people and carried people from the North Tower as it burned above them.

The one who stuck out was the one they had saved last. The one they had been carrying when the North Tower crumbled around them. He'd glimpsed her several times before the South Tower went down. She was in civilian clothing and had a camera around her neck, but she helped all the same. She led people down, talked people into leaving and comforted those who were frightened. After the South Tower went down, coughing through the smoke and the dust, he and John had found her on their way out in a stairwell that had partially collapsed.

He had no idea how far up they had been, but she was covered in dust and bleeding so profusely from a cut on her head that her face was covered in blood. She couldn't walk and told them to leave her, as if resigned to the death that awaited her. But Frank pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket that Mary had embroidered his initials into and told her to cover her nose and mouth with it. Carefully, John had helped him pick her up and together, the three of them made their way out of the building.

The trio made it to a large pillar down the street as the tower fell, and took refuge behind it from the smoke, dust and debris that rained down upon them. Once the billowing clouds had dissipated, they made their way to the nearby church where they were certain they would find someone to take care of the injured woman in their care.

"Did you?" Sean asked as the camera recorded.

"We did," Frank replied with a smile to his grandson. "We passed her off to them and stayed with her to make sure she would be OK." He looked thoughtful. "Your grandmother didn't even get mad when I made it home without the handkerchief."

"How long were you there?"

"A long time," came the reply. "The first day or two, we were helping people to the medical personnel. They even dug some survivors out of a stairwell."

"WOW," Sean said. "Did you ever see that woman again?"

Frank shook his head. "No," he said. "I never did."

"What if you ran into her," Sean asked. "What would you do?"

"I would ask her if she was OK," Frank said. "And tell her I was glad we could get her out." He paused to take a breath that he hoped would keep tears at bay. "And I would tell her about the man that helped me rescue her. John McKenna."

Sean was silent as Frank gave him a sad smile. After a few more seconds of silence, Sean looked around his grandfather's office. "You know," he said. "You didn't have to wear your uniform for this."

"I wore the uniform because I was wearing one that day," Frank said from the couch in front of the window that showed a glorious view of the New York skyline. "It might not have been this particular uniform, but it was an NYPD uniform."

Sean nodded and shut the camera off. "Thanks for telling your story, grandpa," he said.

Frank to another deep breath and stood. "This has been a trying year," he said as he unbuttoned the jacket to his uniform. "But I think you did a good job with your interview."

"Thanks, Grandpa," Sean replied.