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That Day

Fifteen years.

That's 180 months; 5,478 days. 131,472 hours. 7,888,320 minutes.

I've lived, loved, lost, loved again. Relocated more times than I care to admit.

And yet, that day never leaves my mind. It has become a part of my DNA.

Reading stories from people who lost loved ones on that tragic day still brings tears to my eyes. I still don't find myself rushing down to Ground Zero. I still don't trust life away from home without my phone.

As I look out from my place in the Bronx, I see the same blue sky I saw 15 years ago. The eyes I looked with then could see without assistance and thought our country, though deeply flawed, was safe.

I'm older now. Wiser. My eyes can't see anything clearly without progressive lenses. My safety as a woman and an American is threatened every day. As a Black person, it's doubly threatened because things can happen to me that'll never be prosecuted. Even though my life matters, this country doesn't understand how much.

Even though it's hard, I still have hope. Not in America, though. I have hope in a God Who loves me.

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