What was on the wall that day.
My friend changed her shift to be with me on the bad day. She didn't tell me until later.
Tomatoes warm from the sun.
She brings me coffee before I ask. Twenty years and she still beats me to it.
A long phone call with someone I love.
Bees in the lavender. Whole bush humming.
A wild turkey stopped traffic on Main Street this morning and nobody was upset about it.
Whip cream from the can.
The blue light of an old TV before everyone else woke up. Saturday morning. Cereal. The whole world was mine.
Someone left a brown paper bag of garden tomatoes on my porch. I have a guess who.
My son sent me a song with a note: this reminded me of you.
My friend brought soup when I was sick. She knew exactly how I take it.
My grandfather's car radio. Always news. Always low. I learned to fall asleep to the sound of a calm man explaining the world.
My partner remembers my grandmother's recipe and makes it when I miss her.
My son hugged me in front of his friends today. He's fifteen. I'm still floating.
Pulling a load of laundry warm from the dryer.
Grateful for the cab driver in Chicago in '99 who took the long way through the lake because I was visiting. I remember it perfectly.
My mother kept the receipt from our first date. I never knew.
The smell of my mother's perfume on a coat I borrowed. She's been gone six years. I still won't wash it.
My boss told me to take the afternoon off when she heard about my dad.
The crinkle a new book makes when you open it.
My partner taught me how to whistle. Late in life. I do it badly. He cheers.
My mother knew the names of every flower in the front yard. I know them now. I say them out loud when I water.
Sheets right out of the dryer, in winter, on a bed I just made.
My mother kissed each of her grandchildren goodnight before she went to bed. She lived with us. They are grown.