What was on the wall that day.
First Indian paintbrush of spring on the ridge.
My mother singing along to the car radio. She didn't know half the words. She faked them with conviction.
My grandmother kept a tin of buttons. I could play with them for hours. Different shapes. Different stories.
My breath in cold air.
My grandfather brought me a salted plum every time he came home from work. He worked at a factory. He never forgot the plum.
My oldest friend signed her letter, your friend always. She's seventy-four. I'm fifty-one.
My partner reads me lines from his book while I cook.
Daffodil bulbs my grandmother planted forty years ago. Still blooming.
Cold lake water on a summer afternoon.
I remember playing kickball at recess and someone choosing me first. It happened once. I never forgot.
Grateful for the woman who taught me to make tortillas. She was patient. I was not.
Goldfinches on the thistle. Yellow blur in green.