What was on the wall that day.
Empty parking lot at the grocery store on a Tuesday morning.
My uncle still calls me by my childhood nickname.
The man at the post office knows my mother's name. She doesn't drive anymore. He carries her packages to her car.
Snowdrops in February. Tiny defiance.
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 dad still says please drive safe at the end of every phone call.
Fog rolled in off the bay so thick I couldn't see the streetlight.
My uncle's farm. The way the screen door slapped. My cousins. The dogs. All of it gone now. All of it still here.
Sound of leaves in October. Whole street talking.
The pharmacist remembers my mother's medication schedule better than I do. He saves us every month.
My daughter calls me from college just to read me her favorite passage.
My first apartment had a fire escape just big enough for one chair. I sat there every morning that summer.