2001 was a year of tribulation for me long before the Twin Towers fell, my father—the man who instilled in me the work ethic that compels me to rise at 5:00 in the morning to work and taught me to be impeccable with my words—was battling for his life after being stricken with stage IV lung cancer. I saw him transform from the rock of our family who worked three and four jobs at a time to provide for his family into a shadow of himself as chemotherapy reduced him to bones. I have never been the same ever since I saw him frantically pulling the tube out of his mouth only to be enveloped by blue lights and alarms as doctors dashed in to save him. My father Fikremariam Million passed away after being in a coma for 12 days on January 4th, 2002.
The memories of the Twin Towers falling on 9/11 only for my father to be felled four months later escaped like a virus from a lab and rushed to the front of my mind this morning. My wife and I decided to travel with our son up to Queens, New York to visit her parents; as irony would have it, my wife grew up in Corona, New York, which is a part of greater Queens. I woke up at 4:00 AM this morning, rather than going back to sleep for another hour, I decided to take a shower, grab my coffee and headed to Harlem. I took the wrong exit and ended up right in front of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Rather than making a U-turn to head to my preferred destination, I decided to just go where the spirit led me only to end up at a Starbucks 4 miles away from One World Trade Center...continued...
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teodroseIII
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