Her ragged thumb.
Her head fit so sweet into the crook of my shoulder!
Her face in the morning, a touch puffy and pillow-creased.
How, even as maniacally clean as everything must be, she simply would not close anything. Boxes left open, caps perched on top of bottle necks, waiting to fall off and spill detergent happily everywhere!
Her love of Italian and Dutch language and culture, the little turns and words she dropped into my life.
Her love of her two cats.
Her two cats.
Her love of nature and of life.
Her quiet eyes.
Her ridiculously loud, raucous laugh.
Her incredible nose.
Her energy.
Her passion.
Her thirst for new things, new experiences, new music, new accomplishments.
Her style; fashion, yes, but also her strong sense of personal style in general.
Her commitment to right, expressed in the support of various causes.
Her heart, which I guess was fairly open and generous. I always thought it was anyway.
Someone told me it would help if I wrote her a letter about what she did wrong, and never sent it. If I wrote it specifically to never send it. And instead I wrote this.
You know what? After all this time I have to admit: I am a poor judge of character.
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