Your eyes are crossed. I never noticed until now.

I never took the time to sit with you and ask why you liked poppies, and whistles, and the smell of cinnamon. It's a nice smell, that.

I'm holding that little leather pouch you used to carry. I remember the first time I opened it. I was upset because someone had set fire to the lavender field, and I hadn't the chance to pick you any, so instead of bringing you flowers I went home and found this. Matchstick people you had made, and with such care. Each had their own expression, carefuly constructed and made different by the bend in their brow or smile.

You were always like that. Giving a different hint of life to everything. Each word from you could be seen dancing and bending its way to the listener's ear, hands fluttering to accompany, lilting with the air.

The sky has just started setting orange, you know. If I climb up on my roof I can just barely brush it with my fingers. Truth is, it burns, but it reminds me of you, so it's okay.

No, no, that sounds horrible. What I mean to say is it reminds me of your hands. I never needed a bandage or mittens with your hands around. I'd only need to ask and yours would engulf mine, absorb whatever was the matter. I don't mean to sound tragic, but without, mine just seem so small and strange. So sad.

I have to go now, but the lavender is coming back this spring, and I promise I'll bring you some. No one ever thinks to bring flowers in the spring, its too typical. Reverse psychology, really.