What was on the wall that day.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.
My mom kept all of my childhood drawings. I found them in a box this week.
I can drink water from the tap. Free, safe, cold. I never want to take that for granted again.
A pen that writes smoothly for the whole length of a thank-you note.
The way my dog circles to find the perfect spot before lying down.
I'm grateful my body lets me sleep. Some bodies don't.
The school nurse called to ask how he was doing after the rough week. No one asked her to. She just did.
My grandmother taught me to make her bread today. The kitchen smelled like every Sunday of my childhood.
My friend brought me coffee at my dad's wake.
The smell of new shoes.
The exact right pillow.
My mother sang to all her grandchildren the same lullaby she sang to me.