I have only a handful of memories of her, spread apart by decades. Always sunny, I could barely keep up when she spoke to me. I can see the resemblance, how she looked like this sister or this brother. I could hear the wit and the sharp tongue. I understood that much. But I can only count these memories in one hand, and to be honest with you that’s what breaks me. You all lived with her. You all saw her from time to time. This is not to say it was ever enough, it’s never enough, there’s never enough time. But at least those times were in the dozens. I have this one photograph where our aunt wasn’t really there at all. And now she’s gone. Time is a ruthless beast.