I am an incorrigible brat when it comes to rain. If I’m inside looking out at rain, I can appreciate its pleasant tranquility, but if I’m outside with rain falling on me, I’m more like this:

When my cousin Sheri came to visit me on Orcas Island, I did a pretty good job of planning our outdoor activities in accordance with the weather report, but one day, I missed the mark. The skies opened about halfway through our hike, and for the next hour or so, I crankily stomped across the soggy ground while Sheri, who didn’t share my sour attitude towards precipitation, merrily chatted away. We finally came within sight of the car, and I heaved a sigh of relief as Sheri exclaimed, “A labyrinth!”

I glanced over at the pretty green maze beside us and muttered an offhanded: “Yup.” Sheri, however, had come to a stop. Flashing me a huge smile, she said, “I always walk labyrinths.” She stepped to the opening, clasped her hands, and commenced the slowest march ever known to man: left foot, feet together, right foot, feet together. At the pace of your average inchworm, she traveled along the winding path while I stood, mouth agape and water dripping down my face, wondering how rude it would be to wait in the car.

When she finished at last, she turned to me, face aglow with serenity, and all of my impatience and rain-hatred washed away. “You look beautiful,” I told her, then asked her to wait while I retrieved my camera from its waterproof bag to snap a quick photo.

Cousins are the best. In childhood, you play together, and then you grow up and get to see what kind of adults you all become. It’s particularly cool to learn a new life perspective or skill from someone with whom you share one of those uniquely close, “I’ve-known-you-since-we-were-kids” relationships, and I definitely took Sheri’s labyrinth appreciation to heart. Since that day back in 2012, I don’t think I’ve ever strolled right past a labyrinth, regardless of time constraints or weather conditions. Like her, I’ve embraced the opportunity to clasp my hands, bow my head, and take a slow, mindful walk to its center.

Two weeks ago, Sheri passed away suddenly, sending shockwaves through our family. Months before, she and I had commiserated about the Sriracha shortage, and just a few days before she died, I found out production had begun again and ordered two big bottles. My plan was to send her a photo of me holding the bottles, with the caption: It’s back, baby! But I never got the chance.

Death is insufferable with its finality. I want to grab it and scream, “No! I wasn’t done knowing her yet!” But Death doesn’t care. It takes and takes and makes no excuse for itself.

I will always remember Sheri for her luminous spirit, cutting humor, adventurous nature, and unconditional love. And whenever I walk a labyrinth, I’ll hold her even closer to my heart, grateful for the day she taught me, when the universe places a spontaneous meditative ritual at your feet, the correct answer is: “Well, thank you so much. Don’t mind if I do.”

Yes, even in the pouring rain.