What was on the wall that day.
The night my brother and I stayed up watching meteor showers from the porch roof. We told each other things we never said again.
Grateful for the bus that runs on time. Sometimes that's the whole day rescued.
My partner laughs when I sing in the shower. He laughs because he likes it.
My wife kept the napkin I scribbled my number on. I have to remind myself this happened.
Goldfinches on the thistle. Yellow blur in green.
I am grateful for the song that played in the cab on the night that mattered. I won't say what it was. But I remember.
A book heavy in my lap.
A clean steering wheel.
A perfectly toasted bagel.
A black bear with two cubs across the meadow. Far enough.
My father's eyes when I came home from college for the first time. He stood on the porch. He didn't move. He just looked at me.
A woman at the YMCA showed me the locker room without making me feel new.