What was on the wall that day.
My aunt had a parakeet named Maxwell. He sat on her shoulder. He bit her ear sometimes and she would laugh.
My uncle let me drive his tractor when I was ten. He sat behind me. The whole field smelled of diesel and hay.
My partner saved every postcard I ever sent.
I have a body that grew two children. It is not the body it was. I'm thankful for it anyway.
My niece said love you, Aunt Aunt. She is two. Her name for me is sticking.
The first slow dance at the sixth grade dance. His palms were sweating. So were mine. We didn't speak the whole song.
Whippoorwill at dusk.
The way the sand burned my feet at the beach in August, 1986. I can still feel it.
Cardinal in the snow. Bright as anything.
My uncle taught me to ride a bike on the Fourth of July, 1981. I taught my son on the same street, same date, 2014.
Sumac turning. The whole edge of the meadow on fire.
I have my hearing aids. They give me back the kitchen sounds.