What was on the wall that day.
The exact sound of my mother stirring soup. Wooden spoon, metal pot, slow circles. It's the soundtrack of warmth.
Heron took a fish at the riverbend. Quick and clean.
My grandfather wrote letters to the editor every week of his retirement. He never stopped trying to be useful.
The way starlings sound in a parking lot. Whole conversation I can't follow.
Finding the perfect spot at the beach with no umbrellas around.
The crisp edge of a grilled cheese.
A hot bath when the rest of the house is cold.
The brown couch in my grandparents' den. Plastic over it. Crinkle every time anyone sat down. We sat down anyway.
Hailstones on the porch. Big as marbles. Gone in an hour.
The barista remembered I prefer oat milk. I almost cried into the cup.
The exact sound of my mother's footsteps in the hallway when I was home sick.
Grateful for the hospital chaplain who sat with my dad. Just sat.