What was on the wall that day.
Empty parking lot at the grocery store on a Tuesday morning.
My favorite song on the radio at the right volume in the car.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.
My wife and I read together at night. Different books. Same lamp.
Grateful for the dentist who told me my mother brushed my teeth for me when I was little. He could tell. The enamel.
The dog rolling in the grass.
My dog turning circles before lying down.
Soft rain on the roof at night.
My niece wrote me a letter in big crayon letters. I have it on the fridge.
My wife knows the order I put my groceries on the belt.
Birds I can't see, singing in a tree I can.
My father had a tape of my brother as a baby. We listened once. He was a baby. He sounded like himself already.