At first glance, my drive to work this morning looked much the same as it did 5 years ago today. I drove in today on the interstate, wearing black pants, in an Altima, sunroof open, back window cracked, radio on. But nothing is the same, really. The Altima is a newer one, the last one the victim of an interstate collision. On September 11, 2001, I was in a really good mood as I drove into work. I opened the sunroof, cracked the back window to let a breeze circle through, cranked up The Floating Men, and sang all the way into work. Maybe my memory is tainted from all of the reports about the blue skies that day, but it is what it is, and my memory is that it was a beautiful day. I remember the sky being clear and blue. I remember the temperature was such that I was completely comfortable with the air conditioner turned off and with just the breeze from the open windows. I almost always listen to talk radio in the morning. I love music, I do, but I usually prefer to ease into my mornings and save music for the afternoon. But that day I was in an exceptionally good mood. I had an interview that afternoon that I was hopeful about, I only had to work a half day, the weather was good, traffic was decent, The Floating Men rocked, and all was well. Except that it wasn’t. I got to work around 8:45 and bopped down the hallway, stopping to say hi to Alaina, a co-worker who sat outside of my office. I noticed that she seemed frazzled. Before I could ask, she blurted out, “Don’t you know what’s going on?” I didn’t. I drove to work that day in complete oblivion, singing, ignorantly happy, while the world around me ceased to be the same. As silly as it is, I still feel guilty about that. Today my ride in was much more somber. It looked the same -right down to the black pants -except I did not listen to The Floating Men, but rather to replays of various broadcasts from 9-11-01. And I'm not the same. None of us are. And hopefully we never will be.