You are still you.
A wink here and there.
Only now too weak to tell your stories.
I worry I won’t remember my favorite one.
But my fear of disturbing your peace prevents me from asking you to retell it.
My favorite and your favorite to tell when I was young.
The story of a boy and his two dogs, Blackie and Whitie.
I wonder if it was one you made up.
Just for us.
Or maybe one grandma told you.
Somehow the story ends with the moon.
I think that’s why I love looking up at it.
Why it always reminds me of Blackie and Whitie.
And why when you go it will always remind me of you.