I didn't see you as a person confined to an aging body.
I remember you as summer days at the lake,
And trips to the greenhouse every spring.

I didn't see you as a hospital patient drugged to numb the pain.
I remember you as walking again three days after hip surgery,
And water aerobics and mile-long walks as the sun would rise.

I didn't see you as an elderly lady with weary eyes.
I remember you as hula hooping on your 85th birthday,
And twice-a-year expeditions to shop the mall at Birch Run.

I didn't see you as a dying woman.
I remember your life,
I remember the way you lived.