When my brother, Brett, died I was ten years old. Old enough to understand something horrible had happened. Old enough to have my world turned upside down. Old enough to miss him for the rest of my life. Yet, young enough to be shielded from the practicalities of death such as arranging a funeral, contacting family and friends, and managing his estate. After my sister, Ivy, died this > MORE

“I wish you were dead!” I yelled at my brother, Brett, as I slammed down the phone. It was a few days later my brother died. The things ten years old say. The things we wish we hadn’t said. Brett was supposed to come trick-or-treating with my friends and me. He had promised, and I relished my time with him. He had an air that drew people in. > MORE

Lilly, the barn cat, died. She was our warrior cat with a kinked tail and rough veneer. Her energy had a fierce presence to it, and when she appeared I could instantly tell she had stories she could tell—she had been through a lot. She was a survivor, resilient and independent. Yet, when she died she looked tender and soft. Her body was curled up gently and her > MORE