What was on the wall that day.
Sleeping in. Not by accident. On purpose. With nowhere to be.
A whitetail buck stood at the edge of the woods. The dogs didn't see him. He let me see him.
My friend brought soup when I was sick. She knew exactly how I take it.
A barn owl at the open hayloft door.
The afternoon my mother taught me to drive standard. Down a dirt road. Stalls. Laughter. Coffee in a paper cup.
Tulips in the front yard. All red. Like a row of small flames.
The way crisp lettuce sounds when it's torn for a salad.
A clean steering wheel.
I can carry both grocery bags up the stairs again. I missed that simple muscle.
Halloween, 1991. I went as a ghost because my mother forgot to buy a costume. Best costume I ever had. Everyone said so.
My father said do the next right thing. I say it now to my own kids. To myself, mostly.
We danced in the kitchen tonight while waiting for the pasta to boil.