What was on the wall that day.
My friend brought me coffee at my dad's wake.
The first time my mother let me carry the eggs from the car. I was seven. The world depended on me. I delivered.
Getting old enough to know exactly what I like and stop apologizing for it.
Snowdrops in February. Tiny defiance.
Finding my reading glasses on top of my head.
A driver behind me waited a full minute while I parallel parked. He didn't honk.
Someone paid for my breakfast at the diner. The waitress wouldn't say who.
My oldest friend's voicemails always end with miss you, kid.
I have a window that opens onto a tree. I open it every morning. The tree is enough.
My dad still drives me to the airport. I'm forty-eight. He's gentle about it.
The exact right pen for the exact right note.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.