What was on the wall that day.
Cracking the door open and hearing rain.
A flock of starlings turning together over the field.
I learned to skate on the lake behind my grandparents' house. The chairs we pushed for balance were old kitchen chairs.
My dad still says please drive safe at the end of every phone call.
My grandmother kept hard candies in a crystal bowl on the side table. The wrappers crinkled like Christmas all year.
My friend sat with me through the labor of my child. She left only when my husband arrived.
Three frogs in the watering can.
I am grateful my mother taught me to cook. Everything I make tastes a little like her hands.
The first time my mother let me carry the eggs from the car. I was seven. The world depended on me. I delivered.
My partner doesn't make a face at my mother's stories. He laughs in the right places.
My uncle taught me to ride a bike on the Fourth of July, 1981. I taught my son on the same street, same date, 2014.
The sky after a thunderstorm. Washed.