What was on the wall that day.
My father carrying my brother on his shoulders across the parking lot. I was nine. I wanted to be carried but I was too old.
My father had a record collection. He cleaned every record before playing it. The ritual taught me something I'm still learning.
A new candle lit for the first time.
My partner remembers what foods make me sick. Years of remembering.
Grateful for the boss who paid me on Friday afternoons. Made all the difference back then.
Someone paid for my breakfast at the diner. The waitress wouldn't say who.
I have a brother again. After eight years of silence we are talking.
I have a friend who picks up on the first ring. I don't take it for granted, not even once.
My grandmother gave me her gold ring before she died. I wear it every day.
My niece wrote me a letter in big crayon letters. I have it on the fridge.
My grandmother taught me to make her bread today. The kitchen smelled like every Sunday of my childhood.
Grateful for the way coffee smells before it's even brewed. The promise of it.