Music—and singing—was something my older sister Maria shared with me. With all of us, actually—even though, as the eldest of seven, she had a serious amount of responsibility on her small shoulders. But she was always singing, and often dancing, too. The songs were from the albums my older brothers let us play: Styx, Wings, Billy Joel, the Eagles. I lay on my stomach on the floor of the den, changing the records and singing along. Not the Beatles; they were too precious, though my eldest brother, Timothy, would play them for us on the turn- table in his room.

Maria took me to my first concert, the Eagles, and although our seats were so high we could hardly make out the stage, it didn’t matter a bit because we knew every word to every song. Maria taught me that the best way to enjoy a song is to inhabit it, by singing along. I’m that person that makes other drivers giggle when they catch me singing alone in my car. But if I love a song, I have to sing it. None of which should imply that I can sing; Maria couldn’t either, for that matter. But as one of the things you can do badly and still enjoy (like dancing and skiing), singing became central.

Boys in high school made me mixed tapes— remember those? Songs carefully chosen with you in mind, with everything from the order they played to the lyrics they contained considered with the utmost detail. The songs were always anthems or ballads, and because the words moved me so, I fell a little bit in love with the musician—if not the boy offering it. Bryan Adams was an early love, the lyrics to his album Cuts like a Knife so perfectly matching every- thing my sixteen-year-old self felt. At some point my musical taste diverged from Maria’s, whose interests ranged from rock and roll to musicals while mine strayed heavily into soft rock. But when I think of her, I think of her singing.

Maria died when I was twenty-one years old. She was killed in a freak car accident that would claim no other victims. The hours after I learned of her death remain a blessed blank to me. The next thing I remember is finding ordinary tasks like showering or standing too much to bear. How could we be in the world, breathing, walking around, seeing sunlight, and Maria be dead?

But true to form, she left us a gift. Not many twenty-seven-year-olds write wills, but Maria did. Perhaps because she was a lawyer, or perhaps because she had an old soul. It was a holographic will, meaning she had written down her intentions but not had them notarized legally. Still, it was a message from her to us about what should happen next. And—this is so like her that I still smile through a tear—she left instructions about her funeral.

In those instructions was a request for a song. Not a Beatles or a Billy Joel song, because in the Catholic funeral service only hymns can be played, but a beau- tiful hymn called “Lord of the Dance.” This was 1991, so playing it meant finding a record or tape, and it so happened that my best friend’s parents had it in their album collection. We sat on the floor in her dining room, looking through the vinyl, playing the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s while we searched for it. The gift she gave us was something to do. A sense of purpose when all purpose had fled. And, more importantly, a feeling that I was doing something for her.

And so we played the song at her funeral, and as we did, what else could I do? I belted it out.

Amanda Lang is a business journalist who has worked for the Globe and Mail, CNN, CBC TV, and BNN Bloomberg. She has written two books: The Power of Why (2012) and The Beauty of Discomfort (2017). Born in Winnipeg, Lang lives in Toronto.