What was on the wall that day.
My wife told me to take a nap. I am not used to being taken care of. I took the nap.
My mother's reading lamp. The yellow shade. The click of it turning on when I came down with a nightmare.
My wife laughs at the same line in the same movie every time we watch it.
My mother in the kitchen, dancing alone to the radio while she made dinner. I never told her I saw. I just stood at the door.
A meadow full of black-eyed Susans.
My mother taught me to fold a fitted sheet. It took twenty years before I admitted it was useful.
Summer camp, age eleven, my first time seeing the Milky Way. I had no idea the sky was that full.
Grateful for the cook who lets me sit at the counter even when I only want a glass of water and the company.
My kids are kind to each other. Not always. But often. I'll take it.
My grandfather called the moon "the lamp" and made me promise to look at it whenever I missed him.
The checkout clerk noticed I was crying and didn't say anything but gave me extra time.
My friend's voice on the phone is enough.