Look me in the eyes again. Tell me anything, the summer breeze blowing through those white blinds, the sausage and onion pizza you had for dinner last night, that you’re scared of spiders. I don’t know, exactly, what it is I want to hear. But I know I like the sound of your voice, the way you always grab my chin, make me look you in the eyes. As if this moment, this single, insignificant moment should be celebrated, remembered. So that months later, when you’re gone and I’m driving the highway alone, suitcase in the passenger seat, I remember those blinds, those eyes. And I remember what I think I’ve always known; it is the small moments we carry with us.