What was on the wall that day.
My grandmother's washcloths. White, embroidered, ironed. She ironed washcloths.
I have a friend who picks me up from the airport without making it a favor.
Putting on pajamas straight from the dryer in February. Briefly, all is well.
Grateful for the lifeguard who pulled my son out. We never got her name. I still pray for her.
My dog gives me her paw without being asked.
The blue light of an old TV before everyone else woke up. Saturday morning. Cereal. The whole world was mine.
Someone paid for my breakfast at the diner. The waitress wouldn't say who.
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 blue heron is back at the pond. He's the same one. I'm sure of it.
My oldest friend's voicemails always end with miss you, kid.
My oldest friend signed her letter, your friend always. She's seventy-four. I'm fifty-one.
Walked into a room and was glad to see everyone. All of them. Even Steve.