What was on the wall that day.
My mother taught me to make her bread. I am making it now. The kitchen smells like her.
Grateful for the cook who lets me sit at the counter even when I only want a glass of water and the company.
The blue heron is back at the pond. Same one.
A man returned my wallet with everything in it. He drove twenty minutes out of his way.
On a Tuesday evening, a man asked if I was okay. He said I looked a little pensive and he was right. In that simple moment, I felt seen. His kindness stayed with me longer than the conversation itself, reminding me that even small acts of awareness can quietly lift someone’s day.
Christmas Eve 1987, sleeping on the floor of my cousin's room because there weren't enough beds, listening to the adults laugh in the kitchen.
Tide pools at low tide. Tiny worlds in cups.
The whole class clapped when she came back from chemo. The teacher cried first.
The kitchen smelling like soup.
Grateful for the people who keep the river clean. I swam in it yesterday.
I have a friend who picks up on the first ring. I don't take it for granted, not even once.
My partner read every book my dad recommended even after my dad died. He kept the conversation going.