Not much has changed. Her hair wisps beneath the blowing ceiling fan just as it did in the wind on our picnic in the Cotswolds. We laid a sheet in the grass beneath a tree neither of us knew and laid out a hodgepodge of plastic food contains with the idea of a picnic.
Her skin shines a little less, but my memory fills the gap with years of being blinded by her light. In the sun on the beaches of Rio de Janiero, drinking cheap caprahinas and laughing as the tourist surfers lost their footing in the wake.
Eyes closed, I still see her green gaze flitting from sight to sight, shimmering with delight over joys unseen. In the Redwood Forest, walking lithely among the trees as if she were rejoining old friends, yet with the humility of a creature in the presence of gods.
Laying beside me, as if quietly sleeping, delicate as she ever was.