Last month, my sister celebrated her birthday with a hiking excursion and a family zoom call. Later that night, I found out that my friend lost his wife, leaving him and her young toddler.
The start of one life mirrored by the end of another. Our joyous day will ever be their tragedy.
With the billions of us and only 365 days in a year, I guess every date is memorialized for millions around the world, good and ill.
Even if it’s just math, such a stark coincidence feels gratuitously cruel.
No date is clean.
Every day is both-and.