What was on the wall that day.
A stranger held an umbrella over me while I tied my shoe in the rain.
My laundry, clean, folded, put away.
My great-aunt is ninety-four and still asks me what I'm reading. I bring her my answers.
I remember the librarian at my elementary school. Her name was Mrs. Hardin. She had a bowl of mints. I read every book she said to.
My first apartment had a window that looked out onto an alley. The morning light hit a brick wall and turned gold. I miss it.
The smell of garlic in olive oil before I add the onions.
Squeak of new sneakers.
A nap I didn't plan.
Grateful for the cook who lets me sit at the counter even when I only want a glass of water and the company.
She brings me coffee before I ask. Twenty years and she still beats me to it.
My boss told me to take the afternoon off when she heard about my dad.
My grandfather drove a school bus. He'd toot the horn outside our house on his way home. We waved from the porch.