“I know lots.”
Ari stared.
So I started talking.
“Your mother was terrible at making blueberry muffins.”
My mother laughed through her tears.
“She was not.”
“Yes, she was.”
Ari looked between us.
“Grandma says Mommy made good muffins.”
“The second time.”
Mom nodded reluctantly.
“The first batch was awful.”
“She forgot the sugar,” I said.
Dad laughed.
“And your father ate three anyway.”
“I loved her.”
“They tasted like warm cardboard.”
Ari giggled.
And just like that, Sarah was back in the room.
Not as a tragedy.
Not as a photograph.
As a person.
I told Ari how Sarah danced while brushing her teeth.
How she cried during animal rescue commercials.
How she once locked herself outside wearing slippers and had to climb through our bathroom window.
How she talked to Ari every night while she was pregnant because she believed babies remembered voices.
My sister added stories.
My parents added more.
Claire listened.
She never competed.
Never corrected.
Never looked uncomfortable.
She laughed when we laughed.
Cried when we cried.
Then Ari slowly climbed onto her lap.
Claire wrapped one arm around her.
“So…” Ari whispered.
“Yes?”
“You still love me?”
“Very much.”
“Even if Mommy stays?”
Claire kissed the top of her head.
“I hope she always stays.”
Ari frowned.
