PS. Joan of a thousand days, call it over early October, 2020 after a vagrant email flash three years earlier. The Harvey Flood of Houston, Texas devastated her house and home. The Plague Year 2020 her own apartment refused refuge from the pandemic. This writer of a thousand letters sparked her curiosity. Perhaps there was empathy on the flood watch, or photos of Great Britain and his grandkids, or merely the outreach for shared tales of travel and life experience. Say we already met in 5th-6th grades at Netherwood or all high school at FDR. Say we shared the same birth date, same German grandma named Nana two blocks away, same ambitions to get out of Hudson Park and see the world of her Florida and Texas, his of Paris and San Diego, the same weddings and Lorraine’s funeral after high school back home. Such was serendipity. Getting to know each other over a thousand days meant writing every day, talking every week, and traveling together to places we dreamed possible. Come the finally getting together, come the Fiftieth Reunion back home, come David to her Greater Houston. It lasted a thousand days. It lasted from our Sixties growing up through our sixties growing old. It was a good time, but all good things like a life worth living come to an end. Count a thousand days and come to that conclusion.