Luna "Lunita"

The kitchen counter was always warm where her hands had been, flour dusted across the tiles no matter how many times she wiped them down. Luna's fingers were never quite clean — there was always a trace of dough under her nails, a small burn mark healing on her thumb, the permanent softness of someone who'd spent decades kneading and stirring and feeding anyone who walked through the door.

She had this way of filling a room before you even saw her, that vanilla scent arriving first, then her laugh. Yeah, she'd say when you asked if she wanted to try something new, if she was up for another adventure, if she'd watch the grandkids again even though she'd had them yesterday. Always yeah. The word came so easily to her it was like breathing. On Tuesdays you'd find her on the floor with those babies, building towers just to knock them down, her knees probably aching but her face bright as morning light.

What I miss isn't the big moments — though there were plenty, her dancing at every gathering like she was twenty-five again, her arms up and her whole body saying yes to the music. It's the small stuff. Having her next to me. The way she'd lean in when I was talking, really listening, making me feel like whatever silly thing I was saying mattered.

I'm okay now. Better than okay, actually. If you're reading this and your heart hurts, please don't let it. I loved you — I love you still — and I'm well. That's all I needed you to know.