It’s hard not to blame the date.
It’s very easy to blame the date and the time, the day, what we were wearing, doing, where we were…
It’s very easy to blame it all.
None of this is wrong, it’s perfectly natural.
It’s because things happen on dates.
We’re wearing clothes (probably) and doing stuff someplace when we find out that something’s happened on this date, at X time, in Y location, and depending on the news it knocks us for a loop. If it’s something bad that’s happened, something unexpected — an ‘act of God’ they call it — then we blame what we know to be true. If it’s something good then we praise the news.
Very natural; quite ordinary — dare I say it, quite common to do.
The date is the easiest to blame because it stands up out there every single year, looming. It likes to loom, owning its place in the calendar, and so it does. And why shouldn’t it when on its date something important happened?
March 31st, 2015
The A to Z of why James died is missing letters — a tyre blew, he lost control, his car sat wrecked by the side of the road. There was a tree involved, maybe a lapse in concentration, maybe a little gremlin jumped out and hocky-pockied his damn car off the road, I don’t know.
That’s what this date holds — questions, few answers, an incomplete alphabet for why he’s gone.
This March 31st
He isn’t gone.
Sure he isn’t here but he isn’t gone, he’s still knocking around someplace causing havoc, and that’s why he’s still loved.
He could never leave.
He was too much of so much to just vanish.
Always near, probably even closer now — he is closer, I can’t escape that fact.
I miss him and I love him, it’s just this date has missing letters and I’d like me a full alphabet, and I just can’t help but blame the date for something that happened on it.