When the first fireflies of the summer light up your eyes,
I still see you.

When the flashing blues and reds and greens of Christmas bulbs twinkle their reflection in your eyes,
I still see you.

When your eyes fill with wonder as you gaze at the sunrise over the ocean
or at the mountaintops that tower far above you and appear to kiss the sky
or anything else that reminds you just how remarkable the world really is,
I still see you.

Although this body has gotten bigger and older and some parts have become saggy and wrinkled, I stare into the mirror and ponder the depths of my own eyes and—
I still see you.

With every day that passes, your presence may fade a bit more.

But when I catch a glimpse of you, I drink it up to quench my thirst for that pure, unbridled vivacity that I crave to experience again and again.

And to the extent that I am able, I bottle it up to store in the wells of the eyes of my own children.