What was on the wall that day.
My dad and I built a treehouse when I was eight. I tore it down with my own son this summer.
The summer we slept on the porch because the upstairs was too hot. Whole family. Every night. I'd give anything for one more.
The way starlings sound in a parking lot. Whole conversation I can't follow.
My friend brings me figs from her tree every summer.
My partner laughs when I sing in the shower. He laughs because he likes it.
My grandmother is ninety-one and she still calls me her baby.
My dentist's office sent flowers to my mom's funeral.
The woman in front of me at the coffee shop paid for mine.
The Sunday newspaper spread across the floor. Comics first. My dad let me read them aloud. He laughed every time, as if it was new.
Loon call across the lake at dawn.
Three deer crossed the road in front of me. The fawn stopped to look at me.
Finishing the last of the dishes after a big meal.