You’d always loved The Eagles. I recall listening to their albums by warm, dim light while you rearranged the living room furniture, or cooked a late meal. Whenever I hear The Eagles, I smell the smoldering blend of your menthol tobacco and spiced rose incense. And I can hear you singing along to your favorite tracks. You’d turn up the volume every time Desperado played—your buzz-on eyes would go even starrier, and you’d rock your body, delicately. One of the These Nights always shattered your trance. You’d dance a little quicker, and open your mouth wider, trying to match the high notes of the refrain.
I love to remember you this way—peaceful.