It has been one year, and of everything I saw in New York City immediately after Sept. 11, the one remaining image in my mind is that ladies’ black blouse.

In the course of working as a member of the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s disaster assistance cadre during what was arguably the largest recovery operation in the nation’s history, I spent 15 days in and around ground zero, where each day brought new images of the tragedy.

Some were visceral, such as seeing the 32-story pile of steel and rubble that were once the twin towers of the World Trade Center and where recovery workers worked around the clock searching for victims.

Some were poignant, such as noticing the New York City policewoman outside the victims’ assistance center who took the time to question a small child – there with her mother searching for information about their missing loved one – about the name of the stuffed bear clutched in her tiny arms.

Some were tearful, such as the doctor who, with no survivors to assist medically, returned to ground zero with her pet-therapy dog to offer the kind of solace only a large, furry dog can.

Some were frightening, such as the legions of armed guards and heavy equipment on the roads, in the water and in the skies around New York, a constant reminder of a country on alert.

Some were heartwarming, such as the taxicab drivers who, learning we were from FEMA and there to do whatever we could in the recovery effort, refused to charge us a fare.

And then there other were images, those that come to the surface from time to time, often accompanied by memories of the sounds of heavy machinery and the smell of smoke and ozone.

But it’s the black blouse that comes to my mind most often. Just a plain, long-sleeved pullover salvaged with care from the tons of rubble taken to the Fresh Kills Landfill on Staten Island.

Who was she? I often wonder. Did she wear the blouse to work that sunny, late summer day? Or did she pack it away carefully in her carry-on bag for a special lunch or dinner date?

Did it ever reach some longing and desperate family member?

As removed as I am from the tragedy, maybe I have no right to even wonder. After all, I got to come home to Fort Kent, to leave everything behind, physically, at least.

It haunts me – that black blouse.