What was on the wall that day.
The first time my mother let me carry the eggs from the car. I was seven. The world depended on me. I delivered.
I had a teacher in fifth grade who said I had a good voice for reading aloud. I still read to my own kids because of her.
On a Tuesday evening, a man asked if I was okay. He said I looked a little pensive and he was right. In that simple moment, I felt seen. His kindness stayed with me longer than the conversation itself, reminding me that even small acts of awareness can quietly lift someone’s day.
I have a friend who texts every Sunday just to check. Eight years of Sundays.
I have a dentist who is gentle. The whole appointment I am grateful.
The lilacs by the back door are blooming. Whole yard smells like my grandmother.
A barn owl at the open hayloft door.
I remember the exact feeling of new sneakers on the first day of school. Springy. Like I could outrun anything.
My dog finding her ball.
My son brought me his stuffed bear because I had a bad day.
The Sunday newspaper spread across the floor. Comics first. My dad let me read them aloud. He laughed every time, as if it was new.
Someone returned the dog who'd run off. They washed him first. They wouldn't take money.