I've always wanted to say my parents and I were close, but truthfully, we never really got the chance. I suppose we were as close as one could be with a small child; I was only seven when they died.

I only remember a few small things about them, like how Dad's nose turned even redder than his cheeks when Madelyn did something to upset him. Mom always tensed her hands so tight that all her veins would become visible.

Dad was a funny guy. At least, I thought so. My sisters were never very impressed with him humor. Kelly usually just looked grossed out and Madelyn would glare at him with rebellion in her eyes. I remember that Dad cracked a fart joke in church once and the guy next to him started laughing so hard he had to leave. My mom tried to look horrified that he would say such a thing in church, but I could see a chuckle being choked back as she did.

The thing I remember most about Dad was that he would read to me every night. Every year or so, he tried to increase the number of books we'd have to get through, until eventually we had six books every night. Once the picture books stopped, he read to me from chapter books that he'd pick up from the store down the street from his office. He always found something unique to read to me, stories you probably would not find at the school book fair. He instilled in me a natural love of books, and the point quickly came where I was reading chapters to him, instead of the other way around.

Mom was beautiful; that's something I could never forget. I've always thought so, and I realize when I look at pictures that the sentiment has never changed. I always wished I had inherited her blonde hair, like Madelyn, or her sky blue eyes, like Kelly. I told her that once, when I was four, but she told me she loved that I looked more like my father. I continued to pout, but she lifted a finger to tap my nose and said I was beautiful too, I just didn't see it as clearly as she did.

Mom tried to be very crafty, too. My sisters were much older and had school during the day, so she would entertain me with arts and crafts. I still have the elephant statues we tried to make out of clay sitting on the nightstand next to my bed. Hers wasn't much better than mine, which was really just a blob with a long trunk. It didn't matter that we both had no real artistic talent, she would sit is there every day and come up with something new.

When they died, I wasn't sure what to do, or what to think. I cried a lot, but I didn't really understand. At the funeral, the priest told me that they had gone to live with Jesus. I didn't find much comfort in that until later. I just turned to him and asked, "But why'd they go without me?" He just laid a hand on my shoulder and walked away.