I learned a lot about difference, othering and patience from you. I always wondered if your mom drank during pregnancy and that’s what happened. I bet it was.

You were very nice, very pregnant and very tired. I felt guilty for wanting your husband but took solace in knowing that you really were good to him.

Supremely confident that I’d be an English teacher, you may yet be right.

I still catch myself conveying ennui by flipping my hair. And I laugh at myself.

My favorite image of you is sitting under a tent on Labor Day at Harriet Island. I love Minnesota’s political legacy, in no small part, because of you.

Your inherent goodness made me feel like a dark soul. Fabulous memories of exploring Italy together…except your bursting into tears at the Vatican. Darkness isn’t all bad.

Part Sunday School teacher, part surrogate dad – without me even projecting it on to you. You washing my feet is one of the shyest moments of my life.

You hugged me when I was super sick and no one would come near me. (I think I just shut down with depression.) I needed that compassion. Thanks.

You knew your times tables in second grade. We competed for teacher’s pet. I loved you for being smart and was intimidated because you knew something I didn’t.

The only thing I remember from your math class is my infamous “crusty syringe” story. It must have had something to do with cubic volume or related nonsense.

I rocked you to sleep singing Polyester Bride. You were the sweetest, fattest baby and sent me to the emergency room with a pulled muscle in my back.