27: These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things


Butter at room temperature.

The first kiss of a latte. Liquid like velvet, hot as an engine in the night, sneaking past the gatekeeper, an impenetrable lip of foam.

My nieces and nephews. The balls of their feet feel like cherry tomatoes fresh from Dad’s garden. Ripe and soft and ready. Life giving simply by being alive.

That its smile can so completely change a face so small and fresh with dew.

The lyric is “and every mother’s child is going to spy to see if reindeers really know how to fly” and not just “every child.” I just love that.

You were not just a child. You were a mother’s child. You were loved at least once. You probably still are. I am.

It’s not until you open the umbrella and hear the drops pounding overhead that you realize just how hard it’s raining.

The way my face melts when I remember to “soften the space between your eyebrows.” It’s equivalent to taking a deep breath.

A deep breath. Air as refreshing as water.

Peppercorn and lemon and amber at dusk.

His hand on my back, where the curve leads a million miles under the sea and can sing a million secrets. But won’t.

Not to anyone but him.


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