"There is one small room on the main floor of the museum that is in fact not operated by the museum itself and is not available even to many of the families. "

"Tucked away off to the side, behind an unmarked door, it is overseen by the medical examiner's office. This is called the reflection room... [T]he official from the medical examiner's office can indeed let me through.... He points me around the corner to a cramped, dark space but does not follow. A box of tissues sits on a wooden bench and a family huddles silently looking through a window, about 4 feet by 5 feet. They leave almost instantly and I can now see what is through the window: aisles of dark-stained wood cabinets of rosewood or teak maybe, floor to ceiling, lit by small overhead spotlights. I let out a loud, sharp laugh. Inside these cabinets are the remains that, after nearly 13 years of the most rigorous testing known to man, have not been matched to the DNA of any of the victims.... [I]t's a picture window looking out at cabinetry, there isn't really anything else to think about. This chamber is meant to be a sanctuary, but I cannot ruminate about the arbitrary cruelty of the universe or lament the vagaries of loss and love because all there is to see are armoires packed with carefully labeled bags of flesh too ruined and desiccated even for science. My sister is among the many for whom there have been no remains recovered whatsoever. Vaporized. So there's no grave to visit, there never will be. Just this theatrically lit Ikea warehouse behind a panel of glass.... I don't know how to feel about the matter because to do so would require any of this making even a bit of sense.... Where is the right place to store pounds of unidentifiable human tissue so that future generations can pay their respects? I would not wish what's happened to my family on anyone, but I begrudgingly admire its infinite weirdness, still, after all this time....."

From "The Worst Day Of My Life Is Now New York's Hottest Tourist Attraction/Nearly 13 years after my sister's death, a reluctant Sunday visit to the 9/11 Memorial Museum, where public spectacle and private grief have a permanent home together" by Steve Kandell (Buzzfeed).

ADDED: "13 years" is a good clue this is a reprinted essay from 4 years ago. I didn't notice until Begonia prompted me in the comments:

This essay is 4 years old. The author read this same essay (or a similar one) aloud for This American Life episode earlier this year....

I reacted:

Every year there's a scramble for 9/11-appropriate things to run.

With 17 years of perspective, it's fantastic that we don't have other things that have equalled and overshadowed 9/11... which is what I felt was going to happen, 17 years ago.