I can imagine they are still here. The visit comes back in a rush of emotions – transient traces of their presence waft unexpectedly by – the familiar scent of mom’s lotion, a flash of Abbie’s long fingers upon the refrigerator door, soft whispers behind a closed door, and the fuzzy glow that seemed to come over a room whenever Briar was near Abbie. As I type this, I look through our door on to Grandpa’s porch. Just beyond the steps he took as he embarked each day on a walk around the house, sits a sweet little bush. Its variegated leaves are the color of lemon sorbet and chalkboard, and they dance in the breeze, drawing my eye again and again. My mom…