For 68 years before the World Trade Center towers collapsed in flames, September 11th meant something very different to my family. It meant the day my dad entered this world.
I can't picture my dad as a baby, or as a child, or as a teenager. Or even as a soldier. In my imagination he can only be a tall, soft-spoken businessman, loving husband of Carla Beth, and father to Ryan, Spencer, Steven and Russell.
I have no idea how old Dad is in this photo my brother Russ posted on Facebook yesterday, but it has never quite seemed to be Dad to me.
I guess because Mom's not in the photo. And the photo doesn't show Dad walking the floors of the True Value. And he's not in front of a grill or pushing a lawn mower. Or floating on a boat with a rod and reel in hand. He's not sitting at the head of the family dinner table or a bleacher bench for my brother's basketball games. Or in a pew in church.
For nearly twenty years now there have been no new photos of Dad. He passed away in May of 2002.
Yes, September 11, 2001 was his final birthday this side of heaven. But we didn't know that, of course.
A small tragedy for our family in the midst of the bigger national tragedies of that day.
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