What was on the wall that day.
Christmas morning, 1987. A bicycle in the living room with a red ribbon. My father had spent half the night assembling it.
Wind through the wheat. Whole field listening.
Stepping on a crunchy patch of leaves in fall.
I have a body that wakes up. That's the first gift of every day and I'm trying to remember it.
A wild turkey stopped traffic this morning and nobody was upset.
My uncle's neighbor brought him meals every day after his stroke. We never asked.
A rabbit in the lettuce. He was eating his fill. I let him.
My grandson called to tell me about a turtle. He's four. He wanted me to know.
Grateful for the lifeguard who pulled my son out. We never got her name. I still pray for her.
My uncle still calls me by my childhood nickname.
My sister kept my secret for thirty years. I just learned she knew.
The dog's tail thumping the floor when I walk in.