What was on the wall that day.
Pulling onions from the garden. The smell of dirt on my hands.
My back works. After last year I will never stop being grateful for that.
I am grateful for the song that played in the cab on the night that mattered. I won't say what it was. But I remember.
My niece running to meet me at the door.
My partner taught me how to whistle. Late in life. I do it badly. He cheers.
I learned to skate on the lake behind my grandparents' house. The chairs we pushed for balance were old kitchen chairs.
I can swallow without pain again. Thirty-eight days of soup. Today, toast.
A crow tried to share its breakfast with me today. I declined politely.
My husband and I have danced the same first-dance song at every wedding we've been to. We can't help it.
My husband made me coffee before I asked for thirty-one years and counting.
Grateful for the people who keep the city libraries open. I would not be who I am without them.
Salamander under a stone. Bright orange. The kids gasped.