Chapter 2: childbirth because youth had brought her back into form. She would clumsily pile her hair on top of her head, and the tangles that fell out would be left behind.

down gave her a very sexy expression. Every middle-aged dad and teenage boy's head would curve towards her as she strolled up to the snack counter with a ten-dollar bill. She would drop the cash and order the young person serving us to let us get whatever we wanted off the counter.

I saw less of Carmen as we grew older. The other girls were younger than I was, and Tally was more of my sister's buddy. When I was in high school, I was no longer in need of transportation to the pool or to school, but I continued to hunt for Carmen whenever I might have run into her. Her presence had a delightful quality. The way she would run and break into a sincere smile

over to you with her arms open wide, giving you kisses and hugs while sniffing your hair as if she were holding a young child. You would feel her aura flow into you like a serotonin boost.

I occasionally attempt to recall the last time I saw Carmen, but memory is a funny thing and tends to combine numerous occurrences into one sizable haze. I've decided that I'll meet her at Tally and my sister's high school graduation, which will be held a year after mine. I saw her with Tally and the girls among the throng of people wearing red and blue dresses and posing for photos on the football field. We hurried to Carmen's and left our own family behind after I took my sister's hand.

The atmosphere was festive and tumultuous, and when Carmen opened her arms to greet us, it felt regal and comfortable. We collided with her, a little too forcefully, yelling and forming an awkward group hug that strangely felt just right.

She exclaimed, "My girls!" as she cupped my sister's and then my face. She focused on us, and we shone with smiles on our faces. When I think of her, I picture her wearing a long red and white sundress, her dark hair glistening in the field lights, and her loving eyes with their gold flecks. She radiated delight.

I would not see Carmen again after that.

A few years later, my sister informed me via email that, of all things, Tally had phoned her to inform her that Carmen had cancer. Melanoma. Being just in our twenties, it seemed odd. We hadn't nearly reached the point where parents were passing away. And who was Carmen? Sixteen or seventeen?

My sister wrote that Tally claimed it could be treated surgically. Thus, hopefully nothing major.

I accepted the information with some, but not excessive, concern. I was just getting started in life, working my first job at an ad firm, and dating a handsome guy who would eventually become my husband. Carmen was always on my mind, but the news of her cancer

wasn't a large-space consuming item. Surely no one ever perished from melanoma? Wasn't that the one where they simply removed the problematic mole or flaw?

But my sister contacted me in tears barely six months later. According to Tally's report, the disease was in Stage V and had spread ruthlessly and mercilessly. Tally had urged that if she had ever been your friend, now is the time to come visit her, my sister choked out. Tally informed her that this was the last time. I had a hard time believing this was actually happening because it seemed like my sister was talking about a stranger we hardly know. or as though it were merely a difficult time, and Tally was exaggerating. Carmen would survive. I was young and naive, so I didn't fully comprehend that having several Stage V cancers didn't guarantee your survival. your demise

I skipped the goodbye trip.

I now realise that I wasn't prepared to believe that a woman who was so full of life could suddenly pass away. I found everything to be completely illogical. The most vibrant person I know was Carmen. I was not prepared to believe that someone had passed away because I had never even lost a grandparent.

even without Carmen. Not Carmen, who shaved our legs after midnight, let sleepovers be true sleepovers where we talked till morning, and danced to music. She radiated life.

I froze on the peaceful morning in August when I sat in my office and noticed that I had a new email from my sister with the subject Carmen. I didn't want to open it because I didn't want to read the news or deal with the guilt I had been avoiding because I hadn't done what was necessary.

travel back home to see her. I kept adding yet, as if I was about to go at any moment. The time has come for you to see her if you are a friend of hers. She had been much more than just my buddy, and I hadn't left.

A week after the funeral, I recall virtually little of it. Many of us kids, the people she had impacted during the most formative years of our lives, were lost in a haze of black. Tally and her sisters were seated in the front row, and I can still clearly picture myself staring at the backs of their heads as they all had long, dark waves on their heads that made me think of Carmen. I don't

Only the way their hair reminded me of being in the backseat of the Volvo, the wind blowing Carmen's long locks while music screamed from the speakers, are the words that anyone spoke that I can recall.

Tally was outside when I got back from the service. She was smoking a cigarette outside the church and appeared as glamorous as a girl could on the day of her mother's funeral. Tally, who