What was on the wall that day.
My grandfather, ninety-one, met my newborn daughter. He cried. He sang to her.
Snow on the spruce, heavy and bright.
Grateful for whoever made the bench at the bus stop. Old wood. Worn smooth. Good place to wait.
My partner takes my hand at the worst part of every movie.
The neighbor's wind chimes catching a breeze.
My doctor said your numbers are good. I cried in the car. Good day.
A stranger taught me how to fold a fitted sheet in the laundromat. I had been struggling.
My boss put a card and a gift card on my chair after my breakup. I never told her.
Hearing the train whistle at night.
Cold water from the kitchen tap.
The very first sip of cold beer on a hot day.
My daughter still calls me. She's grown. She has her own life. She still calls.