What was on the wall that day.
My partner reads the obituaries and then tells me one good thing about each person. I love that he does this.
My mother had a green chair. It was hideous. She loved it. We left it at the curb when we moved. I see green chairs and miss her.
A nap I didn't plan.
A man at the laundromat showed me how to use the machine without making me feel stupid.
A clean junk drawer.
First fireflies of the year.
A breeze through the kitchen window with the curtains lifting.
Walking into the library on a hot day. The cold. The silence. The smell.
Grateful for the dentist who told me my mother brushed my teeth for me when I was little. He could tell. The enamel.
A spider built a web across my doorway overnight. I went out the back.
The way starlings sound in a parking lot. Whole conversation I can't follow.
My mother sewing patches onto my brother's knees. The shape of his knee on the kitchen table. I miss that shape.