What was on the wall that day.
My professor stayed late to explain it again. I don't think I was the one she was really staying for.
Sound of leaves in October. Whole street talking.
Someone left their snow shovel by my mailbox during the storm. I cleared my walk. I left it for the next person.
Grateful for the cook who lets me sit at the counter even when I only want a glass of water and the company.
My dad still kisses my mom on the forehead before bed.
My father said do the next right thing. I say it now to my own kids. To myself, mostly.
Sand dollars on the beach after a storm.
Caterpillars on the milkweed. Same patch as last year. Right on time.
Magnolia petals on the windshield.
The smell of new shoes in the back-to-school aisle. I'm fifty. I still get a little dizzy.
My mother used to read TV Guide out loud at breakfast. Plot summaries of soap operas. We were enthralled.
My father taught me how to drive a stick shift in the high school parking lot. He kept his hand near the gearshift, never on it.