What was on the wall that day.
Field of milkweed in late summer. The pods cracking open like good news.
First snowfall of the season. Quiet for an hour.
A deer ate my hostas. I am annoyed and delighted.
I am grateful for the way light moves through pine trees. It moves on me too.
I have a bed. With sheets. In a quiet room. Some nights I lie awake just appreciating it.
My doctor said your numbers are good. I cried in the car. Good day.
My mother taught me to make her bread. I am making it now. The kitchen smells like her.
My boss sent me home when I came in sick. He didn't make it about the work.
My grandson called to tell me about a turtle. He's four. He wanted me to know.
My great-grandmother gave me a coin from her wedding bouquet. I lost it. I'd give a year to have it back.
My brother and I rode our bikes to the cemetery. We picnicked. We weren't being morbid. It was just shady there.
The afternoon my dad let me drive his truck up the driveway. I was nine. I have not stopped feeling tall since.