What was on the wall that day.
My grandmother folded my underwear when I visited. I was twelve. I was mortified. I'd kill to have her fold one more thing.
A familiar voice on the phone.
My father said he loved me, out loud, for the first time, last week. He's eighty-two.
Saw a great gray owl perched at the gate before dawn.
Sheets right out of the dryer, in winter, on a bed I just made.
My partner makes my tea exactly how I like it.
My wife sends me pictures of dogs she sees on her walks. Just dogs.
My partner taught me how to whistle. Late in life. I do it badly. He cheers.
My grandmother saved string. Tied into balls. I thought it was strange. I save string now. I get it.
My body recovered. I didn't think it would, and it did. I am thanking it every day.
Finding the song I forgot existed on a playlist.
Grateful for the song my dad whistled. I whistle it now when I miss him.