When I think of you,
I think of the sea.

You carried serenity,
even in your later-year
clumsiness.

When I think of you,
I think of long car rides.

You knew how to roll
down the window,
much to our joy,
and skillfully use
your dragon breath
to get more treats.

When I think of you,
I think of wrapping paper.

You were so subtle,
gentle, with your excitement.

When I think of you,
I think of pausing.

You lived in the present,
never concerned
about the past or future —
except when food was involved.

When I think of you,
I think of peanut butter jars.

You loved to clean plates
and containers, always
getting something on your nose.

When I think of you,
I think of space.

You, once contained in flesh,
now embody the stars,
the sky, the particles of soil
beneath my feet.

When I think of you,
a smile crosses my face.