Today holds a different sort of anniversary.
It's the day my mother (I fondly called her "Moo") passed away in 1991, 26 years ago.
I was at work. I was a printing salesman. I got the phone call late that morning. I remember hanging up the phone, standing up, hands balled in fists resting on my desktop. I was hunched over. I remember slamming one of my fists onto the desk with a loud, ringing thud. It hurt ... but it grounded me.
And then I grabbed my suit jacket, went over to my boss' office, told him the news and took off for Wrightwood where she lived nestled in the mountains.
It was a blur of a day. But I remember certain details, not only about the day itself but the days and weeks following. I remember vividly seeing my mother for one of the last times where she expired in her bed. The coroner removing her. Sitting alone in her house. Contacting relatives. Dealing with all the legal mumbo jumbo. The Mardi Gras party we threw for her funeral. So much more ...
I was still in my 20s. She had just turned 51 years old which seemed too young at the time. (And it was.)
And, somehow, 26 years have wedged themselves in between then and now ...