What was on the wall that day.
My partner makes my tea exactly how I like it.
The way fog moves down a hillside in the morning.
The smell of cedar. The whole walk smelled like a chest opened up.
My grandmother's recipe for chicken and dumplings. She never wrote it down. I'm afraid of forgetting.
My sister tells me when my hair looks bad. I count that as love.
My first concert. I was fourteen. I wore a denim jacket. I remember every song.
My mother saves the cardinal feathers she finds for me.
My partner did the dishes even though it was my turn. I had a bad day.
The way fresh bread sounds when you tear it.
My breath fogs the glass when the bus comes.
I have parents who still call to check the weather.
Grateful for the cook who lets me sit at the counter even when I only want a glass of water and the company.