What was on the wall that day.
My father's reading glasses on the kitchen table. Always there. Always slightly crooked. I have them in a drawer.
My grandfather kept a saltshaker in his coat pocket for tomatoes from the garden. He'd stand among the plants and eat.
My great-aunt was a nurse for fifty years. She told me stories of kindness from her patients. Not the other way around.
The smell of pencil shavings.
The sound of my parents talking quietly in the kitchen at night. I'd wake up and feel safe just hearing them.
I have a window that opens onto a tree. I open it every morning. The tree is enough.
My grandfather kept a transistor radio under the kitchen table. He listened to ballgames while my grandmother cooked.
Watching ducks at the pond.
The night I camped out in the backyard. I lasted three hours. My dad sat with me until I went back in. He never made fun.
The sky after a thunderstorm. Washed.
Grateful for the man at the hardware store who told me, you'll figure it out, and then let me figure it out.
My breath in cold air.