What was on the wall that day.
My grandmother's tea. The exact way she made it. I make it that way now and she's at the kitchen with me.
I have a bed. With sheets. In a quiet room. Some nights I lie awake just appreciating it.
My partner sets out my coffee mug the night before.
The maple on the corner turned overnight. Yesterday green, this morning fire.
Geese on the pond. The same group every year. They know me.
I remember the librarian at my elementary school. Her name was Mrs. Hardin. She had a bowl of mints. I read every book she said to.
Someone fixed my flat tire while I was inside the diner. Wouldn't take money.
Finishing a long phone call with a friend.
My toddler clapping for himself.
Walking into the library on a hot day. The cold. The silence. The smell.
The crisp edge of a grilled cheese.
Someone slipped a sandwich to the man at the corner. They did it like nothing.