What was on the wall that day.
My uncle's tomatoes. The way he sliced them thick. Salt. Pepper. White bread. Mayo. I haven't had a sandwich like that since.
My great-grandmother kept a journal in two languages. We read it on Sundays now.
My great-aunt always wore a hat. Indoors. Outdoors. To bed once, that we saw.
I'm grateful for the shoe repairman on Cypress Street. He saved my favorite boots three times.
Reaching the top of the hill on a hard walk.
The pond froze overnight. Solid. Glass.
My partner brushed my hair at the hospital when I couldn't.
Grateful for the dentist who told me my mother brushed my teeth for me when I was little. He could tell. The enamel.
The smell of cedar. The whole walk smelled like a chest opened up.
Grateful for the morning my grandfather taught me to make eggs. The pan was older than I was.
My dad sat with me at three in the morning after the breakup. He did not say much. He was just there.
My grandmother taught me to make her bread today. The kitchen smelled like every Sunday of my childhood.