What was on the wall that day.
My grandfather sang in the shower in Polish. I didn't understand a word. I sang along anyway.
My partner held my mother's hand at the end. He did not let go.
My mother sewing patches onto my brother's knees. The shape of his knee on the kitchen table. I miss that shape.
Hearing geese overhead.
The first time I made my own breakfast. Cereal and orange juice. I was six. I felt like a giant.
My grandmother kept butterscotch candies in her purse. I can still hear the crinkle of the wrappers.
Wind moving through tall grass like a hand.
Sunlight through stained glass in an empty church.
All green lights from my house to the highway. The universe was rooting for me.
I have a friend who is honest with me. The kind of honest you have to earn.
Sandhill cranes overhead at dusk. The sound is older than language.
She brings me coffee before I ask. Twenty years and she still beats me to it.