What was on the wall that day.
My grandmother's church hat. Wide brim. A small fake bird on the side. She wore it every Easter. I have it in a box.
My mother's lap, age four, after a fall. She did not tell me to stop crying. She held me until I stopped.
The way oak trees creak in the wind.
My dog wagging her tail in her sleep.
My great-grandmother gave me a coin from her wedding bouquet. I lost it. I'd give a year to have it back.
My friend brought me to the hospital when I couldn't see straight. She drove slow. She talked the whole way.
Birds I can't see, singing in a tree I can.
Tea that's the right temperature on the first sip.
My partner taught me how to whistle. Late in life. I do it badly. He cheers.
A pen that writes smoothly for the whole length of a thank-you note.
My body recovered. I didn't think it would, and it did. I am thanking it every day.
A clean kitchen at the end of the night.