What was on the wall that day.
The smell of my grandmother's potato salad. She would not give the recipe. I'm still trying.
My grandmother kept a tin of buttons. I could play with them for hours. Different shapes. Different stories.
The way new leaves smell. Bright. Sharp. Like a beginning.
The maple on the corner turned overnight.
My father taught me to change a tire on a back road one summer. We made a day of it.
Lightning bugs along the creek tonight.
A long stretch first thing in the morning.
Finding the song I forgot existed on a playlist.
Grateful for the way the dog stretches when she wakes up. She's been here twelve years. She still stretches like a puppy.
A familiar voice on the phone.
The man who delivers my groceries asked about my dog by name today.
A red dragonfly on the rim of the watering can.