I do not know what label sociologists may give me, but today I realized that I am a part of the "Columbia Generation". As a five-year-old the day the space shuttle Columbia first flew, a large part of of my first awareness of the world was the excitement of the space shuttle program. My parents bought me an inflatable toy space shuttle - the Columbia, of course. Could there be any other? Counterfeit names - Discovery, Atlantis, and Endeavor were to follow, but to my heart, they were all Columbia. My husband dreamed of being an astronaut, went to Space Camp, was mission commander. Our Columbia inspired our dreams.

We were fifth graders when our teacher interrupted a school assembly to tell us that the Challenger had exploded on liftoff. We thought he was joking until we came home and had the images of the fireball and two smoke trails indelibly burned in our memories. But our Columbia still flew. The shuttle still existed. The pain was salved by her continued work, despite setbacks and budget cuts.

And when the dreams faded, for not all of us could be astronauts, we still heard about Columbia here and there. She was another twenty-something woman just doing her job. She was familiar, yet respected; a symbol of the eighties, yet ever current. An icon of ageless engineering in a world of planned obsolescence. Our generation needed such a symbol. Just a few short days ago, I heard that Columbia was up on another mission, and I reflected on her history. Perhaps I should read about her again, remember the ground she broke…

Today, with a heart still raw from too-recent national loss, I mourn again. True, I weep for the seven astronauts who died today, but I am more touched by their loss because of Columbia. The loss of the Columbia, who I knew, brings closer the loss of the seven who I did not know. Our Columbia, who should have ended her days enshrined in a museum for future children to understand her generation, has broken our hearts with hers.