Not long after my mom passed, I had my best friends over one night in late October. We built a fort in the living room—chairs, cushions, and a giant blanket draped over us, with mattresses underneath. It was one of those forts that make you feel like a kid again.

We watched Halloweentown, a movie I used to watch every Halloween with my mom and sister. It’s a tradition I still keep. That night, with my friends around me, we laughed, made terrible jokes, and Alexis killed an impression of the Cromwell witches chanting to save Halloweentown. Aggie Cromwell would have been proud.

For a little while, the grief lifted.

A few days after my sister passed, my family, friends, and I were at a Krispy Kreme in Decatur, Alabama—Thea’s town. I spotted a silly, signature-release, heart-shaped donut adorned with a bee, iced to say “BEE MINE” and immediately thought, “Thea would think this donut is so stupid and hilarious.” But in that moment, it felt like Thea and I both agreed in unison that it was the best thing ever—to propose to Alexis with that stupid-ass bee donut. I got down on one knee, holding this special donut, as iconic as Hagrid’s “HAPPEE BIRTHDAE HARRY” cake, and asked,

“Will you bee my valentine?”

Alexis rolled her eyes so hard that I thought they’d get stuck. But she smiled, too.

Please bee mine

She said, "Ok". Don't judge my outfit, my sister just died.

It was ridiculous, but it was also a moment of lightness in the middle of all the heaviness. I think that moment showed her I wasn’t lost.

Both of those moments, inside the fort and in that Krispy Kreme, became core memories. They didn’t take away the pain, but they reminded me that I was still here, still capable of laughter and love.

For me, grief didn’t demand that I give up those things—it just meant I had to make space for the sorrow alongside them. My loved ones showed me that.