What was on the wall that day.
Sunset behind the silo. Pink, then orange, then over.
Mushrooms in a fairy ring on the lawn.
I have a pencil sharpener that works perfectly. Small thing. Real thing.
My partner kept my mother's hand-knit afghan on our bed even after she died.
Getting old enough to know exactly what I like and stop apologizing for it.
My oldest friend called from a hospital in another city just to say happy birthday. She was fine. She remembered.
The night my brother and I stayed up watching meteor showers from the porch roof. We told each other things we never said again.
The dog rolling in the grass.
A man returned my wallet with everything in it. He drove twenty minutes out of his way.
My nephew let me read him three books past bedtime. I would have read until morning.
My grandfather wrote letters to my grandmother during the war. She kept every one.
My great-grandmother kept a journal in two languages. We read it on Sundays now.