what is the importance of a date? if the death can wipe out life with such a clean blow, what have we left to remember birthdays for but to count the years not lived?
and yet, it hits me like the seasonally brutal winds, naïvely unexpected and ready to knock me off my feet if i’m not careful.
‘could have been 55’
what does that even mean?
it is almost belittling to the 47 years of life that inspired to a level beyond the bounds of my vocabulary, in whichever of my tongues i may attempt to employ
could have been what?
more loving? dare you imply that he loved any less than was humanly possible for him to?
more generous? you couldn’t imagine what he gave, again and again, without counting
i tire of attempting to ennumerate the ineffable. i could go on, but the endlessness of it makes the decision of where to go next exhausting. efforts are concentrated upon what truly honours the memory and example i was gifted: emulating it all with every breath, or at least attempting to. satisfaction is smiling upon hearing any description of myself that i’d attribute to him.
i just remember, as i do every other day, what a role model is
and pretend that i can be one too, one day