What was on the wall that day.
The first sip of coffee on a Saturday morning when nobody else is awake yet.
Sandhill cranes overhead at dusk. The sound is older than language.
Geese on the pond. The same group every year. They know me.
My mother's lap, age four, after a fall. She did not tell me to stop crying. She held me until I stopped.
My grandmother's tea. The exact way she made it. I make it that way now and she's at the kitchen with me.
I remember walking home from elementary school behind two older boys. They never noticed me. I thought they were gods.
A flock of starlings turning together over the field.
A clean refrigerator.
Grateful for the people who plant flowers in median strips.
Grateful that I can still drive. They were going to take my license. I passed the test.
Someone left flowers on the dashboard of my car. I never figured out who.
My grandfather's car radio. Always news. Always low. I learned to fall asleep to the sound of a calm man explaining the world.