I pulled into a reserved parking place at the back of the two-story brick building with The Catch painted in a large, artful white font on the side that was a stone’s throw from the rocky beach. I grabbed my bag from the passenger’s seat and headed for the staircase that climbed the stone facade. I really needed some twinkle lights or something fun for the stairs. I’d decorated my balcony with lights and plants, but the steps had no personality. I put it on my mental list to remedy that soon.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Glancing at the large clock on the wall, I winced. I hurried through my shower but took time to blow-dry my hair, so I didn’t end up with pneumonia. That was the last thing I needed.

I switched off the hair dryer, running my fingers through the soft waves that fell just past my shoulders, dusting along my collarbone and meeting up with the blossom-filled vines that curved around one shoulder. I pressed my palm against one of the violet blossoms that arose from an especially vicious scar. I squeezed my eyes closed. “Miss you, sissy.”

I thought of her almost every day, but it was especially strong around birthdays and anniversaries. And tomorrow was the day we should’ve been celebrating with her favorite ice cream cake from Two Scoops.

I took a deep breath, opening my eyes, making myself take in my appearance, forcing myself to look at the scars. They were beautiful in their own way. I’d made them that way, designing tattoos that didn’t cover the scars but wove around them. Images that honored my sister and me. Magical vines that sprouted violets and bluebells.

The process had taken weeks. Painful hours on a bed in a tattoo shop in Seattle. But it had been worth it. Because when I looked at my body now, I didn’t just see pain. I remembered my sister and how much we had loved each other, even if we had been as different as night and day. I pressed my palm harder against the violet that lay just above my heart. I wished we would’ve had a chance to rediscover the closeness we’d had when we were younger.

I broke my stare with the mirror and headed for my bedroom. I pulled clothes from a dresser I’d picked up at a garage sale for ten bucks and refurbished. There was almost nothing in my space that didn’t hold meaning. I’d spent too many years in a house that held so little of it. I wanted my home to be an extension of me. That typically came from pouring sweat equity into each piece of furniture and decorating my space with photos, personal art, and plants.