On the second day of spring, 2019, my cousin, Cory, died from an overdose. He was 28.

Cory was sweet and funny. He had an easy laugh. Though he struggled with darkness, he never darkened any room. He was a light, always.

When I think of Cory one picture comes to mind. It’s of him and my oldest daughter, Lily, in my living room. Lily was 3 years old at the time, dressed in her Halloween costume. She was an elephant. Cory is squatting next to her with a big smile. His eyes twinkle. And that’s what I remember about him most: His eyes always found a way to twinkle.

There should have been many more pictures of Cory.

Others in my family, with Cory’s same easy laugh and some portion of his twinkle, also battled with darkness. With addiction. With mental health issues. For the most part, their

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