What was on the wall that day.
The cat asleep in a sunbeam.
The morning my brother was born. My father picked me up. We had pancakes at the diner. He said you're a sister now.
My friend remembers the names of all my exes and how each one ended.
An honest yawn.
My daughter sent me a screenshot of her ticket home.
A red-tailed hawk on the fencepost. Did not move when I drove past.
The cat purring on the chair I want to sit in. I sit somewhere else.
My uncle's tomatoes. The way he sliced them thick. Salt. Pepper. White bread. Mayo. I haven't had a sandwich like that since.
My son drew me a picture of our house. He included my coffee mug on the counter. He sees me.
Found a hummingbird nest. The size of a thimble.
I can drink water from the tap. Free, safe, cold. I never want to take that for granted again.
The lake is glass this morning. Whole sky doubled.