What was on the wall that day.
The first thing my dad does when he gets to my house is fix something.
A pen that writes smoothly for the whole length of a thank-you note.
Christmas Day, 1983. Snow that fell all afternoon. My grandfather, alive and laughing. I remember the laugh more than the snow.
My father's voice on the answering machine after he was gone. I let the tape break before I could erase it.
A barn swallow nesting in our eaves. Same pair, I think, three years now.
Birch bark peeling. The way it curls.
Halloween, 1991. I went as a ghost because my mother forgot to buy a costume. Best costume I ever had. Everyone said so.
We danced in the kitchen tonight while waiting for the pasta to boil.
First daffodils up under the kitchen window.
Grateful that I had grandparents long enough to know what grandparents were for.
Fog rolled in over the bay so thick you could only see the second story of the house. Felt like a held breath.
My grandfather kept his pocket change in a small bowl on the dresser. He gave me a handful at every visit.