What was on the wall that day.
The sky after a thunderstorm. Washed.
My grandmother's tea. The exact way she made it. I make it that way now and she's at the kitchen with me.
A cold breeze on a hot porch.
A perfect peach. The juice down my wrist. August doing its one good thing.
The night the power went out in '88. We played cards by candlelight. My father told stories of his uncles.
Sunlight through the high canopy. Cathedral.
Stretching in the sun on the kitchen floor.
I remember the exact pattern of the linoleum in my grandmother's kitchen. Yellow squares with little black flecks.
Beyond amazed at the beauty of sweet conversation at a Mexican restaurant between strangers who became quick friends.
My father's whistle for us to come home. I could hear it from anywhere on the block. I'd give a lot to hear it now.
The way oak trees creak in the wind.
My friend's voice on the phone is enough.