We never got to bury Deborah. I never saw her grave. I didn’t even get to see her face after she died. If only I had known that I would never see her again, I would have spent the years learning every curve on her face, studying those long eyelashes, memorizing the way her lips curled into a funny little twist when she was happy. I would have paid more attention. When I think of her infectious smile and those black curls and big dark eyes, I can’t help but wonder what my baby sister would look like now. She would be eighteen years old today if her life hadn’t been cut short. Beauty like that
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