I think of Stacie when I put my purse down on the floorboard of my car and cover it with a jacket. Once when I met her at the lake to go for a walk, she quipped, “Yeah, no one will ever think that’s a purse under that jacket and steal it.”
I think of Stacie when I over-fill my plate. Once at a bridal shower, she saw my dish and asked, “Hungry much?”
I think of Stacie when I see certain emoji’s in the selection on my iPhone. There was one in particular that was our go-to. I can’t say which.
I think of Stacie when I hear the word, “adequate.” Not because she was. It’s what she answered every single time when I asked her how she was feeling, when she was very, very sick.
I think of Stacie when I hear someone with generous, unbridled laughter.
I think of Stacie when Facebook reminds me that I have a memory “on this day” with her, when it reposts something she said to me, or a photo we were in together.
I think of Stacie when I put my feet up on the back of a theatre chair.
I think of Stacie when I see my Jesus Calling book, and I remember in the final days, how she’d use her finger to trace the lines on her page, as she slowly struggled to read aloud.
I think of Stacie when I eat scrambled eggs and avocado.
I think of Stacie on Mondays now that I don’t make my way across La Paz from my street over to hers.
I think of Stacie without any visible reminders at all.