old postcards piled in antique stores with yellowed edges; when the diner waitress tops up my coffee after I’ve had two sips; a bright waxy new leaf on the ficus in our front window, still curled up like it hit snooze on the alarm; salt air through open windows when I wake up down the shore; the curved shears Mel uses to trim my bangs; the word fluffy; the choreography of the PNC park grounds team when rolling away the tarp, something that reminds me of the curling window shades in my childhood bedroom; a hot dog with yellow mustard; the muffled chirps when my dog barks in her sleep, or the way her paws tremble when she prances through her dreams; when Sarah lets herself in the front door and keeps moving through the house, how she always hugs me before addressing the dog, who has been barking loudly against her hip; acoustic versions; walking laps in the park, how when you pass someone in the opposite direction you might first acknowledge each other with a nod, then later a smile, both of us sharing the inevitable joy of seeing each other again; Andrew’s blocks of snacking cheese & the way he stands over the counter without letting go of the knife, slicing the next hunk before he finishes the one in his right hand; rolling a 7 in Catan with 7 cards in my hand; singing Emmylou by First Aid Kit even though I don’t know the words; my teeth after a cleaning, how I can once again suck air through the excavated spaces between them; painting my nails fire engine red, even tough the mother I worked for in Vienna told me that red fingernails are for harlots; the gingham knee patches Peggy sewed on my overalls; the moment the sun breaks the hillside in the morning, how the kitchen floods with an orange glow while I make my coffee; the crispy lace that borders a fried egg; when the coffeeshop plays one of my favorite songs; asking questions; the time between exposing film and receiving the scans, the writing of memory and joy of re-discovering what I decided was worth saving; hand-me-down clothes from friends; fresh-cut flowers, especially the stretched necks of tulips in early spring; pub garden picnic tables on a rare yet exceptional sunny day in London; salted Irish butter on toasted sourdough; driving home with a pizza box across my lap, the heat ever so slightly burning my thighs; the sound of a basketball when it meets concrete; gallery walls with crooked picture frames; waking up when we’re socked in, which is what we call it when the cloud fills the hillside out our bedroom window, like we woke up but we are still in a dream; the chicken pox scar on his left temple; soft serve twist with rainbow sprinkles in a styrofoam cup; a surprise, but only a true surprise, as in totally unexpected, not when someone says I have a surprise for you because then it is no longer a surprise but simply something you’re not telling me.
