You showed me the apartment in Budapest, phone held up in front of you as you turned in slow circles, laughing at the heat and mist outside. The next day, the ones of us still at home gathered and scanned the Grand Prix crowds for a familiar face. Grandad called to say he’d done the same. but you’d been hidden near the pits you explained that night on FaceTime, glorying in something you loved. You will be back there this year to watch them roar around the track again. I will miss you just as much. I found this poem pretty much fully formed in my draft folder with the date April 17th 2016. Thought it was time to dust it off and get it posted nearly two years later.