What was on the wall that day.
My husband knows when I want company and when I want to be alone in the same room.
Sunday morning. Newspaper. Coffee. Nothing else required.
Slipping into bed in clean sheets.
Two coyotes on the ridge at sunset. Quiet, then gone.
My father knew the names of every constellation. He pointed them out from the driveway. I still look up for him.
Saw a bald eagle from the highway. Pulled over.
I have a friend who picks me up from the airport without making it a favor.
The kid behind me on the bus singing softly to himself.
My doctor sent me a handwritten note after my dad's funeral.
Grateful for the man at the hardware store who told me, you'll figure it out, and then let me figure it out.
I have eyebrows again. Cancer took them. They grew back.
My wife knows my coffee order at every diner in every city we've visited.