Skylar

Skylar had a way of making every car ride feel like an adventure, no matter where she was headed. She'd perch herself up on the back seat handle, her head and body thrust out the window like she owned the whole road, rolling it down with such persistence that eventually everyone learned to just keep it open. That was Skylar, really: she knew what she wanted, and she had everyone figured out completely. For thirteen and a half years, Skylar lived an incredible life, not because it was extraordinary on paper, but because she was present for every moment of it. Those daily walks became rituals, especially the stretch of time in Virginia when Mt. Trashmore was a shared decompression after work. Skylar was genuinely curious about the world around her, trusting her family completely while she soaked in every smell. She never pulled on the leash, always listened, and knew exactly when it was time to come home. She understood that walks were about connection and time together. When life kept moving, Skylar moved with it. Three cross-country relocations didn't rattle her because she understood the essential things: being outside, having a solid routine, and finding her spot. In the current house, that spot was her bed behind the couch, tucked into her own semi-private nook but positioned perfectly so she could stay close to the door, the kitchen, and the people she loved. She'd figured out exactly how to be independent while being exactly where it mattered most. Those car rides and parks and walks, the everyday moments that made up the days together, those were the highlight of a life well-lived. Skylar wasn't just happy to go anywhere; she was genuinely, purely happy to go anywhere with the people who loved her. She had a gift for living well and showing everyone around her how to do it alongside her.