The seventh of every month. The day the plane crashed. The day they died. That’s a hard one to swallow, of course. 

Today I am struck with the fact that the 6th is hard in a different way. On the 6th I remember that they were still very much alive. The earthquake had yet not hit us. Our world has not been turned upside down and inside out. We were blissfully unaware. And they were so very much alive. 

This one squeezes my heart too, but it is a memory of life. Life before. It was such an ordinary day. I’m not sure I have many specific memories. It just didn’t stick out. Our life was still a moving picture. After the 7th it was as if all the frames were sliced apart and the production stopped.