She was my sister. Amy Elisabeth Olesen Alford. She was born when I was eleven years old. In the final months of our mom’s pregnancy, I took out the tiny jammies and onesies that were stored in my pink wooden closet. I took them out and folded them over and over. My mom and dad brought her home to us on Easter Sunday, 1971. In those days, moms stayed in the hospital after the birth of a baby for a week. Can you imagine? A week! Mom was rested and calm. I stood by the bassinet and watched my tiny baby sister breathe, gently and quietly.

All the time I spent with her taught me to be the person that I am. I loved being with her. I loved taking care of her when she was little. I used to pick out her outfits for the day. I used to walk her around the neighborhood—first in a buggy, then in a stroller, then running along behind her little bike.

I loved having her come visit me when I was an adult and she was a teenager. She came to my college and we choreographed a dance piece. She came along on trips with my funky theatre groups. I took her backpacking in the Smoky Mountains and canoeing in the Boundary Waters.

Then she turned into an adult and came rushing up to Minneapolis to meet our first baby, her first little nephew.

She lived right up the street from us.

As our second child was about to be born, she was the one who came tromping over to stay with our little Henry. She and my husband tried to tell me that my labor wasn’t as far along as I thought. They were looking at pregnancy books and trying to calm me down.

I stood, clutching the door handle, and yelled to them both:

“WE’RE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!”

Oh, how they loved to tell that story and imitate my roar….!