What was on the wall that day.
My laundry, clean, folded, put away.
Cold water from the kitchen tap.
Someone left a brown paper bag of garden tomatoes on my porch. I have a guess who.
My grandmother had a yellow kitchen. Saturday mornings smelled like bacon and Murphy oil soap.
I'm grateful my body finally accepted the new medication. I have a chance now.
First fire of the season. The house smells like a hundred good winters at once.
My dad looks at my mom like she is the greatest gift in the world to him. They will have been married 62 years tomorrow.
The river was high this morning. Brown and fast and alive.
A meadow full of black-eyed Susans.
Christmas Eve 1987, sleeping on the floor of my cousin's room because there weren't enough beds, listening to the adults laugh in the kitchen.
My partner makes my tea exactly how I like it.
Finding twenty dollars in a coat pocket I haven't worn since March.