What was on the wall that day.
My partner brushed my hair at the hospital when I couldn't.
A spider rebuilt her web in the same corner three days in a row.
My partner kept my hair when chemo took it. He cried first.
My father taught me to change a tire on a back road one summer. We made a day of it.
We danced in the kitchen tonight while waiting for the pasta to boil.
The Milky Way from the campground. So bright I could read by it.
The kid behind me on the bus singing softly to himself.
I have a body that wakes up. That's the first gift of every day and I'm trying to remember it.
The sky after a thunderstorm. Washed.
My dad calls me on Sundays. Just to say hi. He always says hi twice.
My son hugged me in front of his friends today. He's fourteen.
I have a friend who is exactly herself. Not for anyone. For herself. I love that about her.