Even after a long day at work, my mother’s hands worked tirelessly: chopping vegetables for dinner, stitching our clothes, and doing whatever needed doing. I loved her hands and admired them. I wanted to be strong like her. But at the time, I couldn’t be. I would have, and gladly, if I weren’t so headstrong in proving to her that I was like her.There was this one time, I think I was 13, when she was working on my little brother’s costume for the play. She wanted to teach me how to use the sewing machine. I sat down in the chair. She leaned over me, helped me guide the thread into the needle, fed the fabric in, gently pressed down on the peddle, and let the sewing machine do its job. I was so excited that I was able to do a stitch and help make the costume.I remember…

Stacy used to have such a gentle laugh, one that sounded like running water. I’d do anything to hear it again—to hear her. But that laughter, like everything else, is gone now, leaving only silence.I sit here on the steps leading up to the deck surrounding the front and sides of our cabin. The worn patches in the grass remind me of playing ball with Eddy and Megan. Every Saturday morning from when he was just five years old, Stacy would be holding Megan on her lap, rocking in the chair, laughing as she watched Eddy try to run the football past me to score a touchdown.Megan was six when she decided that she wanted to join her older brother and me for a game; Eddy was eleven then. He looked at me, groaning with disappointment as I told her she could be on my team.“Come on, Dad!” Eddy cried…