I snapped at my older brother yesterday. I snapped because he was upset and was wishing that he was dead. I snapped, I later realized, not just because of my anger at what he was saying but because I had wished the same thing earlier that day.
His eyes spent most of his life glued to the screen — the power of the lens framed around his eyes growing higher and higher with each passing day. He spoke in numbers, he dreamt in numbers — and even on the day of his only daughter’s marriage, his beloved eyes kept counting the number of dishes disappearing versus…