What was on the wall that day.
The contractor came back to fix something he didn't have to, free of charge.
My mother used to read TV Guide out loud at breakfast. Plot summaries of soap operas. We were enthralled.
Crayons. New ones. The whole 64-color box.
Someone left their snow shovel by my mailbox during the storm. I cleared my walk. I left it for the next person.
First crocuses pushing through the snow.
The first time my mother let me carry the eggs from the car. I was seven. The world depended on me. I delivered.
Walking home from the high school dance in June, shoes in my hand, the air finally cool.
Frost ferns on the kitchen window in February.
My uncle's tomatoes. The way he sliced them thick. Salt. Pepper. White bread. Mayo. I haven't had a sandwich like that since.
My mother-in-law sent me a card just because. There was no occasion.
My grandmother is ninety-one and she still calls me her baby.
The school nurse called to ask how he was doing after the rough week. No one asked her to. She just did.