Response: Thompson thought about her often. He had resolved not to, but sometimes he could not help himself. Sometimes she just burst into his mind's eye, into his memory, like the traceable movement of a morning glory.
He could see her sometimes - almost like she was real, almost like she had never gone. Sometimes Thompson saw her dancing on a cobblestone drive, in short polished heels. Sometimes he saw her threading daisies together into a chain. But most often he saw her floating. Floating in a sea of stars.
He had seen it the day of her funeral as he approached the coffin. He had looked down at her - at the bouquet of white flowers in her tiny hands, at the light blue of her eyelids - and suddenly he had seen her floating in an ocean of constellations. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw her there in the indigo sky.
Thompson did not know why, but sometimes he preferred to see her that way, though she had never liked the dark. He wondered sometimes if there was any way for her to be happy there - in the never ending dark ocean - but at least she had the stars there. And that was more than he could say.