Today

"Today is the thirty-seventh anniversary of my mother's death. I have thought of her, longed for her, every day of those thirty-seven years, and my father has, I think, thought of her almost without stopping. If fervent memory could raise the dead, she would be our Eurydice, she would rise like Lady Lazarus from her stubborn death to solace us. But all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath"

- The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

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The day I read this passage of the book I was struck by the honesty and reality. I did not write it down when I read it, but it has been on the edge of my mind. I remembered where it was - near the end of the book, right page, top half. So, last night I decided to find it. It didn't take long - exactly where it was supposed to be - and my last thoughts before sleep were of longing and reality.

This morning, my first moments of thought were of the same, as the images of eight years ago replayed in my mind and on TV.

Like all deaths, time passed is space between then and now. For some, space blurs the lines, fades the memories, and normal life takes precedent. Minds and hearts follow time to joys of now, heartaches of now, or just now.

But for those closest to the storm, every day includes a repeat of the moment. The loss, the absence, is part of who they are.

For the families of almost 3,000 people, and for the people in my life who have lost on other days

I remember.

Not just on this day, but all year long, year after year. Because for some, the pain of years ago is just as sharp and overwhelming today.