This morning I was catching up on some work email and making notations in a spreadsheet, when I had to type today's date -- 9/11.
It's amazing how one second you're fine, the next you flash back seven years to an absolutely devastating day.
My mother-in-law was in town, helping Aaron pain the nursery. I was five months pregnant with Griffin. The weekend prior, they were giving me a hard time for making them paint "white-on-white" (white trim, cream walls). I was sick with a yet-to-be-diagnosed case of pregnancy induced asthma.
That Tuesday morning I came downstairs, my mother-in-law was shaking on the couch. The television was one. Thirty seconds later, the second plane flew into the other tower.
The horror and fear was palatable thousands of miles away for days. You could feel the death. Feel the worry of everyone searching for family and friends. The air was thick emotion, like moving through muddy waters.
The following week was horrible - everything was speculation and everyone was still searching, searching, hoping, hoping.
And now, seven days later, it feels the same. I'm unable to move, unable to breathe. Just sitting, looking at my home. Watching my son play with Star Wars toys and watching Dora, like it's just any other day. But it's not.