What was on the wall that day.
A piece of toast with butter melting just at the corner.
The mechanic told me what was actually wrong and how to fix it myself.
My partner kept my hair when chemo took it. He cried first.
Wind through the wheat. Whole field listening.
A new candle lit for the first time.
My partner walked me through every step of my dad's funeral.
The brown couch in my grandparents' den. Plastic over it. Crinkle every time anyone sat down. We sat down anyway.
The sound of my mother's typewriter, late at night, when she was writing letters to her sister.
Mushrooms in a fairy ring on the lawn.
A clean shower glass.
I'm grateful for the man who told me I had a good handshake. I was twelve. I've worked on it ever since.
My father took me to the diner on Saturdays. We sat at the counter. He let me order coffee at twelve. He laughed when I made a face.