What was on the wall that day.
My daughter calls me from college just to read me her favorite passage.
My grandfather's pocket knife. He used it for everything. Apples, twine, a splinter. I have it now. I use it for everything.
My husband forgives me before I apologize.
My wife sat with me on the porch the night before the surgery. We didn't speak. The porch held us both.
The way the sand burned my feet at the beach in August, 1986. I can still feel it.
My wife sends me pictures of dogs she sees on her walks. Just dogs. No captions. I love her.
A teenager carried my groceries up four flights when the elevator broke.
A woman at the YMCA showed me the locker room without making me feel new.
A piece of toast with butter melting just at the corner.
The checkout clerk noticed I was crying and didn't say anything but gave me extra time.
Thirty-one years of marriage and he still brings me tea in the morning without asking.
My oldest friend's voicemails always end with miss you, kid.