What was on the wall that day.
My father's reading glasses on the kitchen table. Always there. Always slightly crooked. I have them in a drawer.
My mom kept all of my report cards. Each in its own folder.
Someone left flowers on the dashboard of my car. I never figured out who.
A long phone call with someone I love.
Cold lemonade in a glass with condensation.
I have a friend who picks me up from the airport without making it a favor.
Bats over the back porch at dusk.
The first time my mother let me stay up to see the news. I was eight. The world looked enormous and reachable.
The woman in front of me at the coffee shop paid for mine. No reason. She just did.
My father taught me how to drive a stick shift in the high school parking lot. He kept his hand near the gearshift, never on it.
A child waved at me from the car next to me at the light. I waved back. We waved until the light changed.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.