As the dawn rose on August 7th, 1974, a lithe figure stepped out into the space between Towers One and Two of the brand new World Trade Center.
For the next forty-five minutes, he made eight passes between the towers on a cable barely visible from the ground carrying a 55-pound balancing pole of his own design and even lying down at one point on nothing it seemed to the delight of a mob of commuters 1,350 feet below.
Philippe Petite turned 25 the next week and for his birthday, New York City dropped the litany of charges leveled against him, consigning him to a mandated performance for children in Central Park, provided he use a net.
This extraordinary event in New York City history has been pushed into a smaller corner of our collective memories by the terrible events that would transpire on that site twenty-seven years later. And it was foolish perhaps. But as we approach the fifteenth anniversary of the worst day in my life, I'd like to recall this day, when a bit of derring-do captured our imaginations and cemented a vision of joy paving the way for many days of joy over many years to come at the original World Trade Center.
Our memories of loss might better be sprinkled with any number of happy memories that give loss its center and its meaning, a testament to our extraordinarily human resilience when it comes time to cope.
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