NEW YORK CITY - The names rolled down the streets and bounced off the skyscrapers and echoed in the canyons of the city.

Ezra Aviles. Sandy Ayala. Arlene T. Babakitis.

New York had set aside more than four hours for the ceremony, because the youth choir needed to sing the national anthem, and President Obama and former President Bush needed to speak, and the flute player needed to play "Amazing Grace," but mostly because of the reading of the names. All those names.

Two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-three names pouring from loudspeakers around the new 9/11 memorial.

All those killed 10 years ago on 9/11, plus six killed in the World Trade Center bombing in 1993.

You could hear the names on Broadway, and over by the Staten Island Ferry, and down on Wall Street, which on this Sunday morning looked so narrow and small.

Jeffrey Donald Bittner. Albert Balewa Blackman Jr. Christopher Joseph Blackwell.

They had planned six moments of silence. Two for when the planes hit the twin towers. One for when the plane hit the Pentagon. One for when Flight 93 crashed in Shanksville, Pa. Two for when the towers fell.

The moments of silence were not fully silent. You can't keep New York silent.

On Broadway at Fulton Street the vendors were selling flags, and people who wanted to get closer were arguing with cops about the barricades, and across the street the protesters were chanting that 9/11 was an inside job.

But here was St. Paul's Chapel, and inside there was peace.

St. Paul's is so old that George Washington attended services here after his inauguration in 1789. The chapel backs up to the World Trade Center site. Somehow it survived after the towers went down. For months the chapel gave recovery workers a place to eat and sleep.

Inside the chapel there is a long, low rumble, and the tourists look around in panic. But church member Luciana Sikula just smiles: "It's the subway."

Sikula lived across from the church on 9/11. She was at work elsewhere in Manhattan; her infant daughter was at home with their nanny. It took eight hours for Sikula to find her daughter.

"You cannot imagine how long those hours were," she says.

Sikula stands at the altar, offering solace. Every so often someone kneels in front of her. She puts her hands on the person's shoulders and they pray together.

Martin Giovinazzo. Kum-Kum Girolamo. Salvatore Gitto.

Almost a week ago, at the start of this 9/11 journey, we asked people to send their ideas and stories. There were so many.

Brett Walters talked about his old basketball teammate at Belmont Abbey, Jimmy Riches. Jimmy had a sweet jumper and a family he loved back in Brooklyn. He went back home and became a firefighter and died at the World Trade Center. "He had an amazing ability to do things to make people laugh and want to be around him and experience things with him," Brett said. Today would have been Jimmy's 40th birthday.

Cole Waddell of Lancaster, who was living in New York on 9/11, sent a story about the city called "City of Saints."

Tim Collie wrote to make sure we remembered Sandy Bradshaw of Climax, N.C., who was a flight attendant on Flight 93. I heard her name Sunday morning, echoing through Manhattan.

See Wong Shum. Allan Abraham Shwartzstein. Clarin Shellie Siegel-Schwartz.

The readers at the Ground Zero memorial were family members of those who died, fathers and brothers and wives and children, and they got to say a few words about their loved ones. We love you and miss you. Ten years and it's still not easy.

We get down here toward the end of the list, toward the end of this journey, and the question becomes: Where do we go from here?

There's that delicate balance with any tragedy in our lives, whether it's personal to one of us or collective to us all. It does no good to keep dwelling on it. But it's not something you can put in a box and stick in the closet.

Maybe the lesson of memory is that we have to make our own. And maybe the lesson of death is that our names are on the list, too. They just haven't been spoken yet.

Joseph J. Zuccala. Andrew Steven Zucker. Igor Zukelman.

For such a somber Sunday morning, New York still felt alive. Just a few blocks from the memorial service, tourists were laughing and taking pictures at the famous bronze bull down near Wall Street. Joggers streamed through Battery Park. Two kids chased each other on skateboards and a guy walked his giant bulldog down the sidewalk, the dog huffing like a sergeant with each stride.

No more silence for now. Just the sounds of life in the city, 10 years later, on 9/11.