My worst day was the day I understood with my mind, and felt in my heart, that my marriage had ended. That it was really, actually, fully, over. My wishes and hopes for my future and my children’s future, vanished. Like a well-executed magic trick.

The white dove in the magician’s hand – gone. The colorful scarf pulled from his sleeve – gone. The lady sawed in half, lying in a wooden box – gone. How is it possible? It makes no sense. And yet, it happened. Everyone saw it.

But it wasn’t until I lost my parents, that I understood the concept of worst days. Days so meaty I felt broiled, burned, thick with never-ending grizzle that strangled me. It was heavy and out-of-body. An experience I wouldn’t recommend – except that it’s a wake-up call, the likes of which I haven’t felt, before or since. Reminds you you’re alive. Reminds you to be grateful. Reminds you how often we are consumed with very unimportant matters.

And it reminds me that worst is relative. My imagination cannot successfully conceive of worst. And this, my friends, is a problem for which I am grateful.

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