What was on the wall that day.
My mother sang to all her grandchildren the same lullaby she sang to me.
The summer my brother and I biked to the convenience store every afternoon for orange popsicles. We never told our mother.
I'm grateful my body finally accepted the new medication. I have a chance now.
Holding a baby who's just fallen asleep.
The exact taste of the cherry slushies at the snack bar of the public pool.
My dad and I built a treehouse when I was eight. I tore it down with my own son this summer.
My grandfather wrote my grandmother love notes every morning. We found them in a tin.
My father had a record collection. He cleaned every record before playing it. The ritual taught me something I'm still learning.
A flock of starlings turning together over the field.
First fire of the season. The house smells like a hundred good winters at once.
Putting the bird feeder back full.
The kitchen smelling like soup.