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My mom was about two months past her 39th birthday when she passed away. She’d spent the previous year in and out of the hospital as she battled a kidney/blood disease and her body ultimately gave out. She passed in her sleep, taking a nap while I sat in the living room, 12 years old and completely unprepared for such a foundational shift in my life. My relationship to the memories of my mother has always been a bit hazy. Being only 12 when she passed means I was hardly yet a “woman”—I was barely a preteen. Most of the memories of her last year of life were from hospital bedsides and hallways as we navigated her illness and tried to ensure she got the care that she needed. What is enduring is the memory of her smile. Her too-loud laugh was always one of my favorite things. She knew how to throw back her head and laugh with wild abandon. When I get truly caught up in laughter, it bubbles out of me, as well. Other memories? Her talent with voices—her own singing voice was be...