You'd put on oldies music and dance around the kitchen while you cooked Sunday dinner. I used to be embarrassed when my friends came over but now I'd give anything to see you spinning around with that wooden spoon again. You'd grab my hand and make me dance with you even though I couldn't keep up. The kitchen radio is still tuned to your station. I can't bring myself to change it. Dance with the angels now Mom.

The first thing people always said about you was your laugh. It was loud and you'd throw your head back and you didn't care who was looking. Mom always told you to quiet down but Dad said never change. You laughed at your own jokes before you even finished telling them. The house has been so quiet since the accident. Sometimes I play videos on your phone just to hear it again. Keep laughing wherever you are sis.

Every Friday night for like three years we'd play Mario Kart and eat way too much pizza. You always picked Yoshi and I always picked Luigi. You'd get so mad when I'd hit you with shells right before the finish line. Last Friday I turned on the game without thinking and sat there staring at the character select screen. Nobody else plays Yoshi the way you did. I ended up just watching Netflix instead. Fridays aren't the same without you roomie.

You never left the house without your red lipstick on. Even when you were sick you'd put it on before the nurses came in. "A lady always looks her best" you'd say. I found about twenty tubes of it in your purse after. All different shades but they looked the same to me. I tried wearing it once but it just made me cry. Now I keep one in my car and sometimes I hold it and pretend you're telling me to sit up straight and smile. Miss your advice about everything Aunt Rose.

The chemo made you lose your hair but you said at least now we matched since I've been going bald for years. Always trying to make me laugh even when you felt terrible. I found that wig you never wore still in the box. I don't know what to do with it. I don't know what to do with a lot of your things. The house feels too quiet without your terrible singing in the shower. 30 years together and I still reach for your hand when I'm watching TV. Love you always Sarah.

You always said you were ready to go. Said you'd lived a good long life and seen enough. But I wasn't ready to let you go Grandpa. You taught me how to fish and how to tie my shoes and how to change a tire. All the stuff Dad was too busy for. The last thing you said to me was "take care of your grandma for me." She's doing okay but she misses you something fierce. We both do. Thanks for everything you taught me.

The worst part wasn't when you forgot my name. It was earlier when you still knew you were forgetting things and you'd get so frustrated and scared. You'd ask me the same question five times and apologize each time. I never minded but you did. Near the end you seemed peaceful at least. Like a weight had been lifted. I hope wherever you are now you remember everything again Mom. I remember enough for both of us.

I was supposed to call you back that Sunday. You left a voicemail asking about my job interview and said you were proud of me no matter what happened. I was busy and figured I'd call Monday. Monday morning mom called me instead. The funeral director asked if I wanted to put anything in your suit pocket. I printed out your voicemail and folded it up small. Maybe now you know I got the job. I'm sorry I didn't call back Dad.

You always said we'd be roommates in college. Had it all planned out. You'd study engineering and I'd do nursing and we'd have this tiny apartment with plants everywhere. The night before graduation you texted me "can't wait for our adventure to start!" I still have that text. The accident happened two days later. I'm in college now but I got a single dorm room. Couldn't imagine living with anyone else. Sometimes I buy two coffees out of habit and then remember. Miss you every single day Emma.

88 days. That's how long you were in the NICU. 88 days of me pressing my hand against the glass, wishing I could hold you. The nurses would position your tiny incubator so I could see your face. You were so small, all those tubes and wires looking too big for your body. I sang to you through the glass. I don't know if you could hear me. The doctors kept saying you were fighting, but your little body was just too tired. I never got to hold you until the day you left us. You were finally warm in my arms, no more tubes, no more machines beeping. Just quiet. I miss you every day my sweet baby girl. You'll always be my firstborn.