When I suffered insomnia, I thought of The End. Bipolar and somewhat delirious, I felt excited for The End of my insomnia, and I felt scared for The End of the lives of my beloved. I listened, to Japanese Breakfast's mourning, and to John Green's melancholy:

[H]ow many times then, really, do I get to look at a tree? 12,395? There has to be an exact number. Let’s just say it is 12,395. Absolutely, that is a lot, but it is not infinite, and anything less than infinite seems too measly a number and is not satisfactory.

The same day I flew back to New York, my dad flew to China, to say goodbye to his dad, and to lay him to rest. How many times do I get to talk to my own dad?

When I called my mom about it, she jokingly reminded me that I missed her birthday. Unlike in conversations, we quantify our lives in birthdays, in years. How many times do I get to celebrate my mom?

Not enough, and hopefully more. I put reminders for my parents’ birthdays, and to sit by a tree.