What was on the wall that day.
My boss told me to take the afternoon off when she heard about my dad.
My partner remembers everyone's birthdays. Even my mother's. Even her mother's mother's.
The bus driver waved me down when I was running for the stop. Small mercies count.
My father had a tape of my brother as a baby. We listened once. He was a baby. He sounded like himself already.
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.
My city has a free bus that runs through the neighborhood. I take it just to sit and watch the streets.
My friend changed her shift to be with me on the bad day. She didn't tell me until later.
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.
My garden tomato. Ate it on the way back to the house.
My father taught me to whistle by standing behind me with his hand under my chin, tilting it just right.
Field day in elementary school. The sack race. My mom in the parent-child race. We came in last. I was so proud.
My father took me to the planetarium in fifth grade. The dark, the stars, his hand near mine. I have never gotten over it.