Sandra.

I think of your pearls, your golden hair and you manicured nails. I think of your bright, gentle eyes. I think of your denim skirts, and your room on the first floor.
I think of your neatly made bed, your giant chair on wheels;
Your Mac and as a corollary, those reading-glasses that sat at the tip of your nose, while you worked. While you worked.
I think of the oversized oeuvre of Klimt that spanned your wall.
I think of the sparse nature of your room, the couch, the lamps, and the spotless floors-I think of thinking how you kept them like that.
I think of how you brushed your teeth in the CHCI bathroom, during lunch, like it weren’t an oddity.
I think and how you spoke- so fast, so articulate, so strong.
I think of the time you boiled broccoli in a pot, and tapped the lid.
I think of how I felt when I was with you-the amazing fortitude you inspired effortlessly.
I think of your empathy, your lucid eyes that listened patiently while I spoke; every cell of me listening while you spoke.
I think you were Sublime.
You ought to know that.
Thinking of you, Sandra .