What was on the wall that day.
Reading by lamplight while the rain hits the window.
Summer camp, age eleven, my first time seeing the Milky Way. I had no idea the sky was that full.
Grateful that I can still drive. They were going to take my license. I passed the test.
The man at the deli noticed I forgot my wallet and put my sandwich on a tab.
Sleeping in. Not by accident. On purpose. With nowhere to be.
My mother's school photo from 1962. Bangs. A small chipped tooth. I look at it and I see all of her at once.
I have a friend who is exactly herself. Not for anyone. For herself. I love that about her.
My dog Pippa used to wait at the bus stop with me every morning. She has been gone fifteen years and I still look for her there.
My partner sets my coffee on my desk on the days I work from home.
My first apartment had a fire escape just big enough for one chair. I sat there every morning that summer.
My uncle let me cry on his shoulder at my mother's funeral. I'm forty-four.
Finishing the last of the dishes after a big meal.