This morning I read, again from a classmate on Facebook, an excerpt from the book, September 11: Attack on New York City by veteran journalist Wilborn Hampton. He writes that Ginger's husband, Jim Kenworthy, who was on his way to his own WTC job at Deloitte & Touche after seeing their two children off to school, actually saw the first plane as it crashed through the North Tower (a choice to walk to work rather than take the subway may have saved his life).

“…The plane listed slightly, then righted itself and, as Jim watched, flew straight into the side of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Fire and smoke shot out of the building. Jim immediately began counting down the floors from the top of the 110-story skyscraper to where the plane had disappeared into the building. He counted 14. The 96th floor, the same floor where Ginger worked.”

As a reporter, I've interviewed insurance experts from Marsh on a variety of subjects over the years, even 9/11, and while I felt a common bond—who can live in the tri-state metro area and not know someone whose life was dramatically changed by these events?—I had no real concept of the event's scope. I thought I did; I think we all do.

The weight of all this new information is hard to explain; like hot, heavy, lead running through my veins; like all the air being sucked out of my chest at once. That's just a part of it.

Similar to most in America, I spent weeks, then months, after the 9/11 attacks pouring over the names of the deceased on online lists and in news reports. I do recall seeing the name Virginia Ormiston on one of those long, terribly unfortunate lists. I did not connect her with the person I knew as simply “Ginger.”

For one, it was 20-odd years ago. For another, I never knew her first name was really Virginia. I thought maybe “Virginia” was a relative of my old friend, who to me was always just Ginger: a smart and pretty girl with an infectious smile—a smile much like her mother's.

Ginger and I went to high school together in the semi-rural town of Chester, N.J. during the 1970s. She was smart, fun, and friendly. We drifted apart over the school years as we followed our interests and made new friends. Ginger went on to become our class president. She seemed meant to go on to greater things, and she did.

We lost touch over the years. But today I know that we ended up in the same industry. Who knows—I may have wound up interviewing her one day as a Marsh expert.

But that was not to be.

Instead, she will remain an old friend, and a memory, where she will always be about 16 years old, with a beautiful infectious smile, just like her mother's.