What was on the wall that day.
Carrying in groceries in one trip.
My wife and I watched our daughter graduate. We held each other up.
A clean steering wheel.
Bird at the feeder I haven't seen before.
My partner saved every postcard I ever sent.
The first June bug of summer banging on the porch light.
The river at sunrise. Steam coming off.
The library on Bridge Street. Big windows. Linoleum. The librarian who slipped me adult books at fourteen.
The crinkle a new book makes when you open it.
New hand soap in the bathroom.
Two coyotes on the ridge at sunset. Quiet, then gone.
Christmas morning, 1987. A bicycle in the living room with a red ribbon. My father had spent half the night assembling it.