My September 11th.

Seventeen years ago on this date my mother died. She had been sick for a long time. She had breast cancer and it took her life. A day does not go by when I don’t think of her. Her name was Rhoda Alice. She was many things: a wife, a mother, a hairdresser, a great cook, a wonderful person. She connected with her friends and her family.

Five years after her death I watched in horror as many of you did the tragedies now known simply as September 11th. I share your grief every year and wish we didn’t have this day in common.

As I write this I feel this overwhelming sorrow. I stopped crying a long time ago, but today it hits me once again she is gone, my Mama Rhoda. Time does take away the oppressive grief. Watching the remembrances on television this evening, I saw a woman at Ground Zero sobbing and I knew her pain. Every year on this date we take the time to mourn those loved ones . . . and to cry — and me to remember my very special mother. I do that today, September 11, 2013. I remember you.