I understand, now, why my father always walks halfway up the stairs and shouts, "I'm going to the grocery store! Is anybody coming?" when all he needs is a jar of jam. Why my mother called to ask if I wanted to come home from a different state just to help her build charcuterie boards for a pool party she could have assembled herself in twenty minutes. I think I might even be starting to understand why once, mid-noodle-boiling, my sister sprinted up the stairs and swung my door open just to burp into my room and walk back down to the kitchen with a smug expression plastered to her face.

I don't know if I believe in a god, and I certainly don't subscribe to any form of organized religion. But if there is such a thing as heaven, I suspect mine would be unremarkable by most cosmic standards. I think it would look a lot like my family seated around our dining room table, eating dinner and laughing.

My mother's laughs will go up an octave with every breath, and my father's will have turned to wheezes, the way it always does when he finds something utterly hilarious. There will be tears coming out of the corners of my eyes, and my sister will be clutching her stomach, fighting with her diaphragm amidst her laughter. Our dog will be close by, turning her head to smile at each of us, tail wagging, the way it always does when she hears someone in our family erupt into a fit of giggles.

Her tail is always wagging when everyone is home.