An excerpt from the text:

I never told you this, but when I was a kid, I thought you were just about the coolest thing in the world — my cute, baby cousin. I named my teddy bear after you — the one I considered my best friend, the one I whispered all my secrets to before snuggling my head onto her flattened belly and falling asleep each night.
When I was little and learning responsibility with a pet rabbit, you had one too. With magnifying glasses and ants in the summer, with slugs and leftover rock salt from the ice cream machine at Thanksgiving; we discovered death. Death when it was strange and curious, when it couldn’t touch us. And when I walked down the aisle in a white, lacy dress carrying a basket of flower petals, with my hair done and makeup on my face for the first time in my life, you were next to me. When I traveled without my parents, saw mountains and lakes and beaches they had never seen; when I learned I was okay without them, you were there. Never a huge presence. Never someone I confided in or relied on. But you were always there. And I knew that. It was something as familiar and comfortable as Michael Jackson’s frequency in the news, his cassette tape in my first car, or feeling cool secretly watching his videos with my big brother when my mom wasn’t looking.
And I thought we had our twenties to grow apart in because we’d have our thirties to come back together, with husbands and babies and family reunions. But the floor is gone now, our future has vanished, and I feel like my childhood is evaporating too.