What was on the wall that day.
The way the chestnut tree leaves drop all at once on the first cold day.
Grateful for whoever wrote the song that played at my dad's wake. None of us asked. They knew.
I am grateful for the way light moves through pine trees. It moves on me too.
My uncle let me cry on his shoulder at my mother's funeral. I'm forty-four.
My partner cooks for me when I'm sick without making a thing of it.
The summer we slept on the porch because the upstairs was too hot. Whole family. Every night. I'd give anything for one more.
My wife laughs at my mistakes in such a way that I love making them.
Wood smoke from a neighbor's chimney.
Finishing a long phone call with a friend.
Watching ducks at the pond.
My grandfather called the moon "the lamp" and made me promise to look at it whenever I missed him.
I have neighbors who watch out for me. I don't even know all their names.