They were too young when she passed to understand it, really. I remember holding them both at the service, one on each hip, while trying not to fall apart myself. I told them she was in the sky, watching us. That she loved them more than cookies and cartoons combined.
Now they’re five. Old enough to ask questions, to hold flowers, to remember things I didn’t think they could.
We go every year on her birthday. Bring yellow daisies—her favorite—and take a photo to “show her we visited,” like I promised them we would.
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