My name is David Craig Potts, but growing up, my family always called me Craig.
One of my fondest early memories is how my baby sister would stumble adorably over my name, her tiny voice trying to shape the sounds.
Even then, she was fiercely dramatic, her eyes capable of flipping instantly from piercing laser beams to wide, innocent fog lamps, commanding the room like only she could. She was a natural actress, doing school plays and community theater since she was young. I have no doubt, had she not gotten ill, that she would have been a darling of something we would be bingeing on Netflix or Prime.
Our childhood had simple joys, deep roots grown in watching movies like “E.T.” together, and birthdays at the Magic Pan restaurant, where she’d order her beloved split-pea soup with a kind of ritualistic delight.
As adults, though, we drifted apart. My life spiraled into severe addiction to painkillers, triggered by an injury I’d suffered in my youth, eventually plunging me into three dark decades in the criminal underworld. Understandably, my chaotic and dangerous existence took a heavy toll on my relationships, including the precious bond with my sister. All I knew from afar was that she was suffering deeply, both physically and emotionally, and that she needed to shield herself from my instability.
But finally, about a year ago, after decades of darkness, I clawed my way back into the light—getting truly clean, returning to school, stabilizing my life in ways I’d barely dreamed possible.
Then, a few months back, messages arrived signaling that my sister’s life was nearing its end. In an attempt to bridge the enormous gap my addiction had carved, I sent her some of my art, pieces of me, hoping it might offer a sliver of comfort and connection. Bandages across canyons, but it was all I could offer.
She sent word back—a message that forever changed me: she was proud of who I’d become.
For years, guilt had been my constant companion, haunted by the devastation I’d inflicted on our relationship.
But then, the night before she passed, a small, profound miracle arrived: a pen, sent from her, arriving quietly in the mail. I was told there was magic in that pen, and I believe that with all my heart. That pen has become the most important thing I own. (This is the story of the night she left this world… and somehow, set me free.)
A week before her death, she’d also sent me a friend request on Facebook—an invitation I tragically missed because I’d long since stopped actively using the platform.
After countless unanswered requests I’d sent her over the years, hers was the one I desperately wish I’d seen.
When I discovered her request the day after she passed, my heart shattered. It took weeks before I could summon the strength to view her Facebook page.
When I finally did, I didn’t just see posts—I saw the extraordinary person my baby sister had become. She was luminous, a fierce believer in radical kindness, forgiveness, and grace. It suddenly became clear: her final gifts to me—the pen, a powerful symbol of forgiveness and encouragement (for I was born to write), and her Facebook request—were more than gestures. They were a pardon for the pain I’d caused, a profound act of love and redemption from her soul to mine. It’s in honor of her life, her forgiveness, and her radical kindness that I create this memorial. Elizabeth, my sister, thank you for believing in me when I’d given up on myself. I’ll carry your memory, your kindness, and your courage in every word I write.
