You were my big sister but you raised me really. Mom was gone and Dad tried but he didn't know what to do with a daughter. You learned how to braid on YouTube so I wouldn't go to school looking messy. Painted my nails. Taught me about periods. You were only 19. You should've been out living your life but you stayed home for me. Ovarian cancer at 24. That's so young. You were so young. I'm 23 now and I can't imagine being as selfless as you were. I do my daughter's braids the way you taught me. She'll know your name. I promise. Love you forever Sarah.

You knew a place where the catfish were always biting. Secret spot you said. Took me there every summer when I'd visit. Just us and the cooler and hours of not talking much. That was your love language I guess. Quiet time together. You asked me to spread your ashes there. Took me two years to do it because I didn't want to go without you. Finally went last month. Caught three catfish. Cried the whole time. Still your secret spot Gramps. I won't tell anyone.

You sent me a birthday card every single year. Even when I moved and forgot to tell you my new address you tracked me down. Cards with five dollars in them and a note that said "buy yourself something nice." Five dollars didn't buy much but that wasn't the point. You remembered. You always remembered. I forgot your birthday three years in a row. Too busy. Too much going on. You never mentioned it. This year I remembered and bought you a card but you died before I could mail it. It's still sitting on my desk. I can't throw it away. I'm so sorry Grandpa Lou.

5am drives to practice. Every single morning for four years. You never complained even though you worked nights. I'd sleep in the car and you'd have coffee and we'd listen to sports radio. I didn't make varsity. Quit junior year. You said that was okay. That you were proud of me anyway. The car accident happened on your way home from your shift. Someone ran a red light. You died doing everything for everyone else like always. I never said thank you enough. Never told you those drives meant more than hockey ever did. I'm sorry Dad.

You were 67 years old and you drove four hours to see Metallica with me. Your retirement gift to yourself you said. We were the oldest and youngest people in our section and you didn't care at all. You knew every word. Sang louder than anyone. My friends couldn't believe my grandma was that cool. You had the heart attack two days later. The doctors said all that excitement probably didn't help. I don't care. You died happy. That's what matters. I still wear the concert shirt. Miss you Grandma Jean.

You made me write down every word I didn't know and look it up. Every single one. I thought what was the point. Just let me read my book Coach Thompson. But you said athletes need strong minds too. You came to every single game even after you retired. Even when you needed that walker. Cancer took you fast. Six weeks from diagnosis to gone. At your funeral I learned you did that vocabulary thing with everyone you coached. For 35 years. There were hundreds of us there. I still write down words I don't know.

You'd bring me tomatoes from your garden every summer Mrs. Chen. Show up at my door with a bag full of them even though I lived alone and couldn't eat that many. "Make a sauce!" you'd say. "Give to your friends!" After my divorce you started bringing soup too. Never asked questions. Just soup and tomatoes and sometimes you'd stay for tea. When you fell I was the one who found you. I called 911 but you were already gone. Your daughter cleaned out your house and asked if I wanted anything. I took the recipe box. I'm growing tomatoes now. They're not as good as yours.

We were going to be famous. Had the band name picked out and everything. The Dropout Kings. You played drums and I played bass and we were terrible but we didn't care. Your parents' garage every Saturday for two years. Then you got sick. Leukemia. You kept playing as long as you could. Even when you lost your hair and got too weak to do full practices. The last time we played together you could only make it through three songs. You died two weeks before our 18th birthday. We were supposed to share it like always. I can't listen to those recordings we made. Maybe someday. Miss you every day Chris.

You texted me random stuff all day long. Pictures of your coffee, memes that weren't even funny, asking what I was having for lunch. It drove me crazy sometimes and I didn't always respond. Now my phone feels so empty. I scroll through our messages and read them over and over. The last one just says "love you kiddo" with a heart emoji. I texted back "love you too" but I know you'll never see it. Miss your random texts Dad.

We spent every Saturday morning at garage sales looking for baseball cards for your collection. You knew every player's stats by heart and you'd get so excited when you found one you needed. After you passed I didn't know what to do with all those boxes of cards. I donated most of them but I kept your favorite - that Mickey Mantle rookie card you saved up for months to buy. It's on my desk now. Hope you're playing catch with the legends buddy.