What was on the wall that day.
I'm grateful for the cabbage soup. It's nothing fancy. It saved us all winter.
The summer we slept on the porch because the upstairs was too hot. Whole family. Every night. I'd give anything for one more.
My father said he loved me, out loud, for the first time, last week. He's eighty-two.
Watching the kids decide what to wear.
The first cup of coffee at the diner.
My son hugged me in front of his friends today. He's fifteen. I'm still floating.
Putting a record on, side A all the way through.
The diner waitress who called me hon when I was eight. Twenty-five years later I still go in. She still does. I'm still hon.
Saw a porpoise from the ferry.
Catching the last bus.
Pine cones in the driveway. The squirrels are at work.
The smell of my elementary school. Floor wax and chocolate milk.