It’s been four years since you were here. Since then, I’ve worn myself deciding who you were and who you were to me. Anyone who grieves will tell you how these can be two very different things.

Sometimes they’re not, sometimes they cross like two converging rivers with challenging currents. Sometimes I sit at the riverfront, in careful contemplation of my own channels. Other times I let the current sweep me away as I thrash and flail in its angry undertow.

I don’t think it’s up to me to decide the boundary of who you were and who you were to me as much as it is for me to commemorate it.

But I will decide and grieve and commemorate at my own discretion.

You were agreeable, not wanting too much attention brought to yourself. Whether it was insecurity or self-sacrificial it was “it’s no problem, of course I can, I don’t want to be in the way, don’t worry about me.”

Still, there were those of us who did worry, but at the end of the day, worry didn’t keep you here.

To me, you liked movies that made you cry. You would see them and weep by yourself in the theatre. We all thought it was strange, but you said you liked stories that made you feel.

I remember how my Mom always called you the cook. Mom said between the two of you, “Azzie would do the cooking, I would do the cleaning.”

I remember the lottery tickets you bought every day. You tracked the numbers from Tennessee to Florida to Mississippi, you said the trail could hint how the numbers might land in Texas.

I remember your eclectic taste in style and art, how you favored vibrancy, embroidery, buttons, beads, ambitious strokes of color. Anyone with eyes and a memory would say this has rubbed off on me.

You were depressed, I think most clinical people would say. My dad would say you had a certain sadness about you, a delicate assessment of your mental health. I didn’t feel this when you were with me, I overwhelmingly felt your warmth and love.

But I could see it hiding behind your eyes in the moments when you didn’t know I was looking.

To me, your laughter filled a room, a hearty kind of laugh that you couldn’t help but smile when you heard.

I remember your house, a safe place to rest, a warm hug that would embrace you, a fresh, sharp scent of your perfume that filled the air.

I remember your cautious, offensively slow driving. We smirked to ourselves when it took you more than 4 hours to get from Houston to our house in the Dallas suburbs.

I remember the “little somethings” and the “just thought of yous” you brought every time we reunited. The butterfly necklace, the butterfly purse, the dresses, the shoes, the cards, pictures, postcards, paintings.

You were afraid of many things. The delicate dance of your superstition and staunchly held beliefs kept you hanging in the balance of your life. It showed up in your fear -

Of moving, of divorcing, of your weight, of living the life that you always wanted, of the doctors, and ultimately of the hospital that would have kept you here.

I look back and I don’t blame you.

Somewhere in your heart, you decided it was your time to go, no matter what the rest of us decided. Your body said time was up as the malignancy made the final call.

And I can look back and wish there had been a different call made than the one to my house that told us you were gone.

I can be angry and regretful and resentful when I remember how you chose to leave.

But I will choose to remember you the way I want.

That you were kind and strong and funny.

That you were my confidant and my protector and my first friend.

That you were big and beautiful and honest.

I’ll remember you in every butterfly I meet, every spring roll I eat, and every red Mini Cooper that drives by.

I’ll remember you when another four years go by, when I have a life of my own, when I become an Auntie.

I’ll be sure to cry at the sad movies for you, cook every meal with love for you, and paint every painting for you.

I’ll give my “little somethings” for you, pick my lotto numbers for you, sing Dancing Queen from the bottom of my heart and the top of my lungs for you.

And I’ll sit at my river, watching the two currents demand dominance, but I have no need to let them take me with them.

I’ll be okay knowing the fullness of who you were to me.