I think of his laugh and it makes me laugh.  I think of all the stories he didn’t tell me, and it makes me want to imagine and pretend and create and write and explore.  I think of those acres that hold his story, his early years, and so much about him, and it makes me want to walk those sacred grounds often.  I think of our last moments together and it makes me remember love, even in crippling, fragile, and beautiful form.  I think of the doctor’s update as I drove back, and I replay his words over and over like they were an unkept promise.  I think of my eulogy and hope he heard me like all those other times I wanted him to feel like I did something well.  I think about the bright day I’ll see him again, rub his head, and hold him longer than he’s comfortable and feel him patting me as the cue to end all that love on display.  And I will hold him longer, press into him tighter, and I’ll kiss his scratchy face and rub his wide nose with my thumb and I will tell him face to face “Pop, happy birthday.”