Why does the dark seem darker than the light seems lighter?

[caption id="attachment_3944" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Newborn Lotta."][/caption]

A few weeks ago,we were fortunate enough to have a playdate with Ellie's famazing (fantastic +amazing) friend, Izzy.  As we walked her home from school, I asked her the question I ask my children every day after school, "What was your favorite part of the day?"  It seems to elicit more of a response than "How was your day?"  Ben and Ellie were so used to this question that they immediately responded.  I was a bit surprised when I asked Izzy my standard question and she responded that she did not have a favorite part of the day.  I persisted.  She finally came up with something.  It made me wonder if that was a challenging question.  If perhaps my kids are just primed for it.

Then, once again, one of my favorite Jennifers sent me this in an e-mail...

[caption id="attachment_3945" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Newborn Ben."][/caption]

A week ago today my sister-in-law's sister-in-law lost her baby.  He was born and died on the same day.  I don't know any more than that and I mourn for them in all the possible ways that I can

mourn for people I hardly know.  I'm so removed from this couple that I didn't
even know they were pregnant.  When I was told about the baby dying, I thought,
"Isn't it sad that I'm on the list of people to inform about the death, but I
wasn't on the list to inform about the pregnancy?"

[caption id="attachment_3946" align="alignleft" width="263" caption="Newborn Ellie."][/caption]

Which made me ponder too.  Why does death seem so much more important, so much more newsworthy than a birth?  I mean we all go through both, right?   They are both part of transitioning.

And why now when I enter Ellie's room as I am brushing my teeth (I learned that walking around while brushing your teeth from Kip and Kirk's dad, Roger) do I suddenly remember her last days?  And not all the days that came before?  All the days of her sitting in her room, oh so happy, clapping her hands and feet, peeling crayons, counting books.  Perhaps it is because this memory of her last days seems so big, so raw, so new?  Perhaps it is the drama I am attracted to?  Perhaps it is my brain still processing the unbelievable idea that she is gone?  I suppose right now, I don't have the answers, just the questions.