The sidewalk outside your house is still chipped from where you crashed your bike. The drawings you made in third grade of the big blue house and the bright yellow sun are still in the closet on the top shelf.
The dog you grew up with, who slept on your bed on cold nights,
is buried in the flower bed under the window of your old room.
Your year with the ballet, the children you wanted to teach, the car you dented, even the hair you left in the sink, they are all here somewhere too. The only thing missing today is you.
Your family did not arrange a service for you. The life you lived, here with us, under the grateful stars, will have to do.