What was on the wall that day.
A package wrapped in brown paper and twine.
My mom keeps my baby teeth in a small box. Whole box.
My father had a tape of his uncle playing the accordion. We listened to it together, slowly, in the car, on long drives.
Putting on a coat from the dryer when the house is cold.
The moment my book's pages dry after I get caught in the rain.
A wild turkey stopped traffic on Main Street this morning and nobody was upset about it.
My mother's hands made every meal of my childhood. I cook now and I think of her every time I salt the water.
My father's eyes when I came home from college for the first time. He stood on the porch. He didn't move. He just looked at me.
Slow dancing at my brother's wedding with my dad. He was teaching me one last time.
A barista wrote you've got this on my cup. I'd been crying that morning. She couldn't have known.
She brings me coffee before I ask. Twenty years and she still beats me to it.
Whoever planted the cherry tree in front of my apartment building forty years ago, thank you.