My mother’s head thrown back in laughter, her hand holding tightly onto mine and my sister’s hands, her purse slung across her body, eyes closed. My sister with her shoulders slightly hunched forward, laughing at her own joke and Griffith’s reaction to it, chuckling while walking, holding my mom’s hand. Me, laughing, not at the situation at hand, but at the carefree way that my family and Griffith interact, clasping my mother’s hand in one, and my fathers in the other, sunglasses held to the side. My father, chuckling and while walking merrily, holding my hand tightly, all of us squinting in the sun. A sea of purple and white surrounds us as we do our fated walk around the McHenry County College’s spray-painted track that Elizabeth painted herself. We are celebrating, we are remembering, we are fighting back. And amidst all of the purple and white, there is a medal on a purple ribbon hanging just from my mother’s neck. If the color of her shirt doesn’t set us apart, then the medal does. This medal stands for her strength and perseverance, her spirit, her faith, and her ability to overcome this dragon that she has fought with far too many times. It stands for everyone that we are celebrating that day, those that we have loved and lost, those that continue to fight, and those that we are fighting for. While I have known far too many people who have worn a medal like that, whether literally or just figuratively, it is the most heart breaking to see it upon my mother’s chest. It hurts even more to think that this all happened just before we know what the end of the summer would hold, or what this fall would mean. It was just too soon to tell.