Sandra Jean Maria Goretti Kreicher Magyar (6/13/47 - 1/21/11)

With her father. He passed before I was born.

The 1960s. I hear everyone made fun of this hat. It doesn't seem to bother dad.

Photo booth. Notice the Western Kentucky sweatshirt. This is what college sweethearts look like.

The nurse cares for a bunny.

Wedding day. Her husband and her mother. And, yeah, her veil.

The 1970s. Obviously.

With their nephew. They were trying to have children, but later found out she was unable. The look on her face here, to me, is the look of a mother seeking to adopt.

I am a potato. Mom and dad are wondering how one raises a potato.

Katie arrives. Parenting seems less daunting. I have a potato.

The 1980s. Obviously. This is what it looked like when strangers took vacation photos before digital cameras were invented.

Mom had enough spunk to handle Katie.

And enough snuggles to handle me. Yes, I'm in there, somewhere. 

I believe this is the only point in family history when we were all different heights.

Her 40th birthday. Possibly drunk. This is my favorite picture of her right now. I remember this day clearly. It was a Friday the 13th, just like the day she was born. We held the party in the neighborhood clubhouse. As we loaded in decorations, twisters danced across the sky, later devastating Monaco Parkway in one of the most spectacular tornadoes in Denver history.

The 90s. Obviously. That's Nanny on the left. 

The 00s.

Last Thanksgiving. We've pulled innumerable family and group photos to prepare the memorial slideshow. My mom is always positioned in the center of them. She was that kind of person.

This is how I will remember her. In sunshine. Taller than me. Happy. Mine.

I love you, mom. Rest in peace, but also live on in spunk.