I want to remember you this way —

chubby thighs

that beg to be squeezed,

a blonde-ish curl

at the nape of your neck,

pudgy fists

clutching a baby doll and a crumb you found

under the bar stool,

and deep blue eyes,

innocent, curious eyes,

“sweetly amused”

as Sandra Boynton would say,

eyes that sparkles

with expectation

and hope

because, to you,

there are no wildfires

or wars

or threats

or bad news

or grief.

To you,

there is just Dada

who throws you in the air

while you laugh

your raspy smoker’s laugh.

There is just Mama

who comes when you cry

and lifts you onto her hip

and offers you milk.

There is just your Grammy

and your sisters

and your brothers

and your uncle

and those happy strangers

who meet your eyes

and wave

and smile.

All you know is safety

and comfort                   

and love

and I wish I could keep it that way

forever.