Here we are, on the somber anniversary, like we needed to be reminded of, like picking on raw wounds, prayers, names, sad faced politicians. This is the anniversary of the day we died. It's been three years since the day I saw two towers collapse in front of me. I shut off the TV this morning that's showing memorieal ceremonies and went off to my usual run. Running along the river to the plaza at the World Financial Center has been my regular route for the past five years. Even now I often look up the empty space in the sky where the towers stood. Running along the West Side around dusk was really beautiful. Now it strikes me more as a sad reminder. I think of the smoke, the smell, the dust, the streets thickly covered with pieces of papers, echoing sirens day and night, living surrounded by police and national guards (because I'm right off the bridge), seeing missing people's pictures at every bus stop, hospitals, subway stations, everywhere. Candles, flowers, and we talked to strangers and hugged each other repeatedly. For days, weeks, and months. How could we forget? We all died, and we lived.