What was on the wall that day.
A barn swallow nesting in our eaves. Same pair, I think, three years now.
New library card.
The smell of cedar. The whole walk smelled like a chest opened up.
The way fresh bread sounds when you tear it.
My partner remembers everyone's birthdays. Even my mother's. Even her mother's mother's.
The yellow afghan my grandmother made for me when I was born. It is on my couch now.
My dad still says please drive safe at the end of every phone call.
My boss said go home, take care of your mother, we'll figure it out. They figured it out.
I can carry both grocery bags up the stairs again. I missed that simple muscle.
I have a tomato plant on the fire escape. It has eleven flowers. I'm beside myself.
Public restrooms. Underrated kindness.
My partner laughs at my dad jokes. I think she does it on purpose.