My mother died on April Fools’ Day thirteen years ago. Overjoyed though I was by the day she had, as it were, chosen for her exit, that day was pretty hard on me (“Like Mother, Like Son,” April 1, 2001). And it remains hard to this day. As it nears, I cringe ever more often. When it finally arrives, I wander around like a ghost. Sometimes I wonder how it would have been had she chosen another day for her exit, but I never get too far with my thoughts. Too hypothetical for comfort, they only confuse me even more. The conspicuous mismatch between the common meaning of this particular day and its meaning in my own life is here to stay. Forever. But I am not complaining. Not in the least, as a matter of fact. Although death of the loved ones remains paradoxical till our own end, for they stay alive in our minds all the while, it also ushers us ever so gently toward the common destiny. And there is no destiny as common as death. In the meanwhile, my mother’s death is but an innocent joke. April Fools’ Day in a nutshell.