Today marks the 10th yahrzeit — the anniversary — of my twin sister Amy’s death. The date, Nissan 30, is poetic: it’s the last day of the month of Nissan and at the same time Rosh Chodesh — the first day of the new moon and the new month of Iyar. It perfectly captures the cycle of life, with its continuous beginnings and endings, always shifting, always flowing.

I can’t help but reflect that Nissan brings us Pesach — the holiday of leaving behind a life of slavery and passing through Mitzrayim, the narrows, like a birth canal into the complicated, raw world of freedom.

April — Nissan — is steeped in bittersweetness for me. Two of the most beautiful days of my life are in this month: the births of my oldest (April 12/Nissan 3) and my youngest (April 18/Nissan 22), witnessing new life enter the world. And two of the saddest days: kneeling beside my twin sister (April 18/Nissan 30) as she let go of this world, and being with my mamma - after a long separation due to COVID -  as she took her last breath (April 1/Nissan 20) .

Layered over all of this is the collective mourning — for all who have died in the Israeli-Hamas conflict, and for the hostages still in captivity, whose fates remain unknown.

To honor my sister, I lit a yahrzeit candle. I spent time in the front garden, barefoot, hands in the earth, weeding. She enjoyed gardening and this made me feel connected to her.

April/Nissan is a hard month. I feel it before I consciously remember why. It sneaks up, and then it all comes rushing back. And it reminds me: we don't really talk about death in polite society. It's not done. It's too scary. (It also reminds me that, years ago, a death doula asked me to write about this, and only now am I finding the words.)

What we don't always realize is that there are many kinds of death we experience throughout life, each one bringing its own grieving process. Every major life change — giving birth, changing jobs, moving — is a kind of death. A shedding of an old self. But the big death, the one we all face, is something this culture does its best to avoid.

I’m guilty of it too. My husband and I didn’t even complete our wills until last year. I kept telling myself, “I’m not going anywhere, so what do I need it for?”

Almost 30 years ago, I was diagnosed with Hepatitis C and told I had five years to live — unless I underwent treatments that would have jeopardized my chances of having more children. I felt fine and declined. (Long story short: I am perfectly healthy and virus-free today.) But at that moment, mortality was shoved right into my face.

I have been wondering about death since I was four years old, never getting satisfying answers. The message was always: we don’t talk about it. Protect the children. Shield them from it. I wasn’t even allowed to attend Uncle Renee’s funeral. So much for closure.

As an adult, I made a choice: not to bury my fear of death, but to face it. The real fear wasn’t death itself — it was aloneness. Finality.

In New York, I joined a Chevra Kadisha — a sacred burial society that lovingly and respectfully prepares the deceased for burial. It's an act of great compassion, and it brought me comfort. When my time comes (and no, I don’t want it to come), I know there will be people who will care for me with dignity.

I’ve volunteered in hospice, offering Reiki to those nearing transition — sometimes conscious, sometimes not, but always present. I also serve as a care companion at a local cancer hospital, keeping vigil with people in their final days so they are not alone. Sometimes it’s offering respite to families; often, it’s simply being there for someone who has no one. Alongside this, I also offer pet therapy visits with my dog, bringing comfort and companionship to patients in the same hospital.  And, I am honored to be  part of the Chevra Kadisha here in Tampa.

Dying is a part of life that we need to bring into the conversation — to recognize it as part of our natural cycle. We need to become more comfortable with accepting it and integrating it into how we live.

I began writing this to say that April/Nissan is a bittersweet time for me. On both ends of the spectrum, I have witnessed souls moving from one world to another.

And I leave you with this — a little clip I recently saw on Instagram that got me thinking. It’s a parable of two fetuses discussing "life after birth." As a twin, it felt like the perfect way to close.

I dedicate this piece to that conversation — and to all the beautiful, bittersweet, endless cycles we travel together.