I remember your laugh, dark and husky.
I remember being afraid when it lasted too long.
I remember you telling me I was just like you, and how much that hurt.
I remember not wanting you to show up at my softball games because of how you would yell at the umpire, but then being sad when you didn't.
I remember hiding under the seats in the back of your car with my sister as you drove drunk across the bridge.
I remember wanting to protect her from you.
I remember the police officer who instead of pulling you over, used his megaphone to say "Hey Fireman, stay in your lane." All because you had a Fireman license plate.
I remember wondering if he would have pulled you over if he knew two little girls were in the car.
I remember yelling at my Mother that she couldn't let you drive us home anymore. I remember her picking us up every weekend from then on.
I remember being angrier at her than I was at you.
I remember being angry all of the time.