On May 30th, I decided not to take photos at the ballgame. Instead, I spent more time with my sister, Liz, at the family farm. This is where our grandparents lived, and now my parents are there. I brought Liz ring popsicles of strawberry Liquid IV, strings of mozzarella, and photos of our youngest cousin. I handed her a notebook so she could write down her dose of morphine, because she kept track of everything. I saw her handwriting turn childlike, all caps and crooked letters. I didn't think much of it at the time. I told her I loved her, and to be good - but not too good - and explained that it's what I tell our family dog when I say goodbye. She smiled. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll come back and read excerpts from my grandfather's journal, the entries when they take trips with that group of grandkids. But she died three hours later, on May 30th, a couple of feet from where our grandfather had collapsed and died at 91 in 2015. Liz was 37. Liz had just moved home on May 26th t...