My name is David Craig Potts, but growing up, my family 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 shifting instantly from piercing lasers to wide, innocent fog lamps, commanding any room effortlessly. She was a born actress, performing in school plays and community theater from a young age. Had illness not stolen the stage, I have no doubt she’d be the face we’d binge on Netflix or Prime.

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.

About a year ago, after decades of darkness, I clawed my way into the light, _truly clean_ (addicts know what I mean), back in school, stabilizing my life in ways I’d barely dreamed possible.

Then, a few months ago, messages arrived signaling my sister’s life was nearing its end. Attempting to bridge the enormous gap my addiction had carved, I sent her some artwork, pieces of me, hoping to offer even a sliver of comfort… 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.

-D Craig Potts (a big brother)