This day marks so much loss; it is not only the anniversary of the fall of the Towers, but also of Katrina's aftermath, and for me, personally, it is the day my dear brother, Perry, died, in 2005. He had nobly lived and worked for his wife and children, even with advanced multiple sclerosis, up until the last week of his life, when he died of lung cancer. He served aboard an air craft carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin, where he must have contacted one or all of the toxins and carcinogens known to be aboard that ship. And so he was a late war casualty of Viet Nam, of our nation's way of waging war. His death left me bereft in a way I cannot describe; he was the last sharer of our childhood, of lightening bug hunts, of scanning the skies for flying saucers, of matinees in a sticky floored movie house he called "The Greasy G," scared spitless by The Monster from the Black Lagoon and satiated with Necco Wafers. I wish I could go back and get a redo of life with him. I would be kinder and I would know that every day spent together is rare and precious beyond value -- even when he was doing his best to drive me completely nuts. Being a sister is a job I wish I had done much better!