The Notorious AMM.

It was your typical high school Tuesday. Bio, lunch, etc. Discussing an upcoming rat dissection was interrupted by a call to the office, where I was greeted by Ben, one of my mother's friends. I wouldn't understand the blanched look on his face for years.

"Alison was in a car accident."

I eye-rolled (I was a teenager, don't judge). Alison was notorious for accidents. At 24 she had already had two major wrecks, walking away unscathed.

The face of a future crappy driver. So. Many. Men.

It wasn't until I opened the door to her apartment and was met by my mother, tearful, saying, "Do you know your sister is dead?" that my pubescent annoyance crumpled into utter devastation.

The charm. She couldn't resist. 

The next week became a blur of visitors, covered dishes of food crowding the fridge, casket decisions, picking up family at the airport. One of those people, Ed had hurried down to Florida for Alison's first wake. I distinctly remember the funeral, the colors, the pinkish light above the casket, the texture of the skin on Alison's hand. I remember snarking at someone for asking if they could keep some of the photos we set aside. 

My mother has said, "Surviving the death of a child puts everything in perspective. There is nothing worse than burying your own."

This was how people styled their hair in the late 80s.

In the midst of these wakes, something happened between Ed and Sharon. Something familiar and warm. They contacted each other frequently, and before you could say "reconciliation", Ed moved from Brooklyn to Florida to reunite with Sharon. They were married a second time, on their original wedding anniversary, in 2001.

L-R: Rachelle, Edward, Jim, Sharon, Ed, Edward (such name repetition), and me