Eulogy

There is something magical about a full moon, and she knows what it is. When we are walking at that right time of day, she never fails to point it out to me. And then it hangs there like a clock, staring down at us while she gazes back in awe.
Clumsy habits and awkward ticks aside, she is always trying to connect with people. She is never one to exclaim her feelings outright, I think he finds that a bit cheesy. But she always welcomes new people, and makes an effort to stay in touch.
The single word I would use to describe her is "artist." Her hands are never idle, always itching for a pencil or strip of paper to fold into cranes. No inch of blank paper is safe from her in-the-moment sketches. Trees wind their ways into margins, eyes stare back from behind blocks of text. And moons hang like clocks.