What was on the wall that day.
The dog leans into me when I rub his ears. His whole weight. Total trust.
A stranger let me have the last cookie at the bakery.
Smelling rosemary as I brush past the plant.
My grandmother taught me everything about love by loving my grandfather for sixty-eight years.
My grandmother's reading glasses on a chain. I have a pair now. I still slip them off and let them dangle.
My great-grandmother's broken English. I understood her better than anyone. We had our own language of looks and nods.
My mother's reading lamp. The yellow shade. The click of it turning on when I came down with a nightmare.
Grateful for the kid who carried my groceries when the bag broke. He laughed about it. I laughed too.
The boy who walked me home in seventh grade. He didn't say much. He carried my books. I think about him kindly.
My brother said, I love you, before he hung up. He hasn't said that since we were kids.
My son hugged me in front of his friends today. He's fourteen.
The first warm rain of spring.