I have a thousand wonderful memories, which are of course also a thousand piercing arrows. I remember what miserable fighter you were, Tiny: you had the fury of a feather and the tempest of a dandelion weed. You were as easy to appease as a priest in a confessional box. Now more than ever, the girls could use your light. O how you had plans for them: They would be chaste and graceful, they would laugh and dance, they would sew and knit and bake the shine off the pan. You read the riot act to Satan before they were born: "Your children would walk in the way of the Lord and their pursuit would be the delight of the Lord". We are trying to live up to your ideals, Tiny. They are trying. I wish you were here.