I woke up on Saturday and talked to my father about our plans for the afternoon. I was joining my parents on a trip to visit my brother.

First words out of his mouth: "Did you hear the news?"

I flipped on the tv and watched a couple of minutes of coverage. It didn't really register. The footage on the tv reminded me of the Mir re-entry. It really didn't tell the whole story, at least not for me.

I went into my office, sat down in front of my computer, and basically did what I do every other day. Checked email, checked a few websites and message boards, etc.

Segue back to 1986. "Three days before my birthday" were the words I spoke to my elementary school librarian, Mrs Clarkston, explaining why I would always remember the date of the Challenger explosion. Three days before my 11th birthday, to be specific.

It was a pretty normal day. We were having math class when Mrs Clarkston ran down the hall, stopping at our classroom to tell us that there was an accident with the Space Shuttle. We jumped out of our seats and sped down the hall to the library, which had the school's only tv. Most of us were still wearing smiles, completely unaware of how serious the "accident" was. All of that washed away as we spent about an hour watching the Challenger explode every 90 seconds on instant replay. Probably about half-way in, I was a sobbing mess.

During those early years, I was a major Space Shuttle junkie. I'd always been fascinated by space travel, and the Space Shuttle, specifically the Columbia, made its maiden voyage in 1981 when I was six. So, for me, the Space Shuttle was space travel.

In the summer of 1982, I went with my family, my aunt, and my cousin on our summer trip. We started at the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville, and headed on to the Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina. On our way home, heading back in the direction of Knoxville, we stopped somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains (near Gatlinburg, I think) at a small store. They sold all kinds of wood-made items, and nothing really caught my interest. I was far more fascinated by the plastic coolness of the Battlestar Galactica Cylon Raider that my cousin had loaned me at the beginning of the trip, and couldn't wait to get back to the car to play with it.

Nothing caught my interest, that is, until I spotted a small wooden Space Shuttle, designated Columbia. I had to have it. If it's one thing seven-year- old's don't have, it's tact, and I immediately reminded my aunt that she'd forgotten to buy me something for my birthday the previous January. Somehow, that plan worked, and I jumped in the car with my new toy.

I played with that thing solid for months, which surprised even me, granted that it was made entirely of wood. I mean, come on, I had Legos and Hot Wheels, plastic and metal, yet I was playing with wood? But it had all of the basic features of the real Space Shuttle: separating rocket boosters and fuel tank module. I could simulate Space Shuttle launches to the letter, so it was perfect. It was my Columbia.

The Challenger disaster took everything I felt about the Space Shuttle and put it in a bad place. I spent two days wishing beyond wish that they might find the crew compartment intact at the bottom of the Atlantic. They had air tanks on board; they could survive for days, right? As days wore on, reality sank in, but I couldn't figure out how to cope with it. I spent weeks gathering every news article relating to the disaster that arrived at our house, storing them in a little box for safe keeping.

What had always been such a joyous obsession became something that felt morbid. And my Columbia became a source of confusion: when people talked about the Shuttle, they were talking about the Challenger. The Columbia disappeared into the background, and so went my Columbia, into the dark recesses of my closet.

Eventually, I just kinda forgot about it all. I later compiled those collected news articles into a science report, and tossed what I didn't use. (I got an A on the report, anyway.) It was nearly another two years before the Shuttle flew again. I watched that takeoff on tv, but, by then, it just didn't mean as much to me. I still listened whenever they talked about it on the news, but the boyhood interest was gone.

So there I was sitting at my computer on Saturday, doing all of the normal things of the normal day. I clicked over to Yahoo and looked at the few articles they had online at that point about the story.

And, suddenly, my mind found My Columbia. And a tear streaked down my face.

Sitting there in my chair, I reverted to the seven-year-old with his beloved toy of his beloved Space Shuttle. And he was watching his beloved Space Shuttle disintegrate in the atmosphere.

I found my wooden Columbia that afternoon, stashed in its same old spot in my old closet. It was a little dusty, but otherwise exactly as it was two decades ago.

Sitting here, holding it in my hands, I get this weird colliding of emotions. Part of me sees it as the toy, and remembers all of the fun of re-enacting takeoff. But some small part of me sees it as the real thing, and feels the pain of the realization that the real thing doesn't exist anymore, and never will again.

I turned 28 on Friday. So, yep, this now has a place as "the day after my birthday".

But it's amazing to me how this belated birthday gift, this pound of wood, can represent so much for me. In the beginning, it was my love of space travel. Later, it was the memory of my childhood. Now, it's my own little memorial for twenty two years of space travel and the seven souls who lost their lives experiencing it.

And, somehow, amidst all of the sadness, the seven-year-old finds a way to smile. My Columbia achieves lift-off, with one more chance to soar.