What was on the wall that day.
The smell of my elementary school. Floor wax and chocolate milk.
The first daffodil. Yellow on a gray day.
Grateful for the volunteer who taught me to read at twenty-eight. He never made me feel small.
My wife sends me pictures of dogs she sees on her walks. Just dogs. No captions. I love her.
My grandmother saved string. Tied into balls. I thought it was strange. I save string now. I get it.
My grandmother's church hat. Wide brim. A small fake bird on the side. She wore it every Easter. I have it in a box.
My mother's school photo from 1962. Bangs. A small chipped tooth. I look at it and I see all of her at once.
The lake at dawn, my dad's hand on the back of my neck, his voice low: stand still, watch.
A wood floor under bare feet in summer.
My wife sings me happy birthday off-key. Same key. Every year.
New mittens.
My mother always said g'night, kiddo, even when I was forty. I miss g'night kiddo.