What was on the wall that day.
I can afford to tip generously again. That is everything to me.
My laundry, clean, folded, put away.
My father's reading glasses on the kitchen table. Always there. Always slightly crooked. I have them in a drawer.
A perfect peach. The juice down my wrist. August doing its one good thing.
Someone left flowers on the dashboard of my car. I never figured out who.
A new pen that writes well.
The Sunday newspaper spread across the floor. Comics first. My dad let me read them aloud. He laughed every time, as if it was new.
My grandmother kept butterscotch candies in her purse. I can still hear the crinkle of the wrappers.
Grateful for the morning my grandfather taught me to make eggs. The pan was older than I was.
My grandfather drove a school bus. He'd toot the horn outside our house on his way home. We waved from the porch.
My father took us to the airport just to watch the planes. We never went anywhere. We just watched.
Fireflies on the hill behind the house. The kids are too old now but they still come out to watch.