Sometimes I forget to breathe. So wrapped up in the sensation of sheets before bed, the flickering candle or sound of trains passing, long seconds will lapse without exhalation. Finally recalling this basic function, I’ll sigh out my continued existence and my anxious heart will resume its pounding life, life, life pounding life, life more urgent than before, so that I can’t tell if the quaking of my body from hair on end to chipped blue toenail polish is merely this frantic heart or the house falling down or the world ending or all three at once.
Dense brownies with chocolate chunks.
Making breakfast together.
Small-town city council stories.
My sister’s ring.
The smell of library books.
61 degree breeze. Windows open. Wet-grass smell. Cup of coffee and fleece blanket.