I saw my mother for the last time seventeen years ago today. It was Friday night, September 21, 2001, ten days after the Twin Towers fell. I was in fourth grade. Tomorrow we’ll find out she’s committed suicide.*

My dad loves Pink Floyd, so we grew up listening to a lot of it. They have a few songs that remind me of my mom, like “Wish You Were Here,” but today it’s “Mother,” a song that came out when my mother was seven years old.

Mother should I run for President?
Mother should I trust the government?
Mother will they put me in the firing line?
Ooh ah,
Is it just a waste of time?

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry.
Mama's gonna make all your nightmares come true.
Mama's gonna put all her fears into you.
Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing.

Interestingly, this was one of the songs that Clear Channel suggested radio stations not play after the 9/11 attacks. (More on Wikipedia.)

Grieving her is a different experience every year—fresh every time my perspective changes. This year, I’m thinking about 9/11 and I’m thinking about my birthday, happening eleven days from today. The days of the week are the same, too, which is tripping me out even though it happened this way in 2007 and 2012.

Last week I was in Walnut Creek for a doctor’s appointment. My partner and I took the opportunity to explore parts we remembered from our childhoods. I took him to the apartment complex where my family and I lived before she died.

“Seventeen years is such a long time ago,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed at how much the place still affected me.

“Not really,” he replied.

RIP Antoaneta Bozmarova (2/28/1972 - 9/22/2001)

*The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255.