What was on the wall that day.
The exact right t-shirt out of the dryer.
My mother said this song was on the radio when she met my father. I still hear it and look around for them.
I'm grateful for the man who told me I had a good handshake. I was twelve. I've worked on it ever since.
My grandfather brought me a salted plum every time he came home from work. He worked at a factory. He never forgot the plum.
The dog's tail thumping the floor when I walk in.
Geese on the pond. The same group every year. They know me.
The way water beads on my windshield after I wax the car.
The cat picked my lap. She had options.
My father had one good suit. He wore it to my graduation, my brother's, my sister's, his own retirement. It outlived him.
Riding in the back of my grandparents' Buick. The bench seat was wide enough for three. I always lay across it.
My partner saved every postcard I ever sent.
I am grateful for the way light moves through pine trees. It moves on me too.