What was on the wall that day.
My grandmother's recipe for chicken and dumplings. She never wrote it down. I'm afraid of forgetting.
Grateful for the way coffee smells before it's even brewed. The promise of it.
My grandfather's car radio. Always news. Always low. I learned to fall asleep to the sound of a calm man explaining the world.
Grateful for the hospital chaplain who sat with my dad. Just sat.
Finding my favorite mug in the back of the cabinet.
A library hold finally available.
A hawk eating on the fencepost. The dogs sat down and watched.
My wife knows that I cry quietly in the kitchen sometimes. She never mentions it.
Grateful for the snow plow drivers who go out at three a.m.
My partner danced with my mother at our wedding. He was patient with her. She was already losing her words.
Fog rolled in over the bay so thick you could only see the second story of the house. Felt like a held breath.
Cool tile in summer.