File This Under Tilting At Windmills

You know, it's probably the wrong time to say it and we're certainly never going to be rid of it now, but...

I never liked that name. 9/11. Nine eleven. September the 11th. It was never grand enough. Not poetic enough to encompass all the pain and suffering. To signify the efforts of the rescue workers, of the rebuilding, of the redemption of a day that was about overcoming that tragedy as much as it about the awful events that took place.

And, at the same time, too grandiose, too self-confident. Just a reference to the calender, as if anyone who heard it could be expected to know, instantly, about those swirling, chaotic hours of fear and hope and prayer that swept over a nation. I mean, yeah, anyone alive that day isn't likely to forget it any time soon but the ever rushing sand of time scour everything away. And down through the years, we're going to pass just an empty date. Hollowed instead of hallowed, by our reverence towards it.