What was on the wall that day.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.
The smell of cinnamon in the kitchen on a Saturday.
My son brought me his stuffed bear because I had a bad day.
My wife kept the napkin I scribbled my number on. I have to remind myself this happened.
The lake at dawn, my dad's hand on the back of my neck, his voice low: stand still, watch.
The lake is glass this morning. Whole sky doubled.
Goldfinches on the thistle. Yellow blur in green.
Pulling laundry off the line.
I have a partner who lets me read in bed with the light on.
My great-aunt's apartment in the Bronx. Plastic on the couches. Pictures of strangers on the wall. The same one of me at four.
I'm grateful for the doctor who told me I could change my mind about the surgery, with no judgment.
My mother packed my lunch for the first day of college. I was twenty-two. I cried in the cafeteria.