Photo by Yoksel Zok on Unsplash

A daffodil. A blanket. A bike. A pink geode exploding with crystals. A pair of ducks paddling upstream. An oatmeal cookie made by a woman who has been making them for 70 years. A tender, young branch from an apple tree. A gift. An offering. A conch shell smooth as rain. A vial of holy water. A well-loved book full of well-loved story. The woman’s mother taught her how to make them, as she’d been taught as a girl. A pencil nub from a long-ago miniature golf game. A necklace with a locket with a photo inside. A ladybug circling the paths within my palm. A mug of coffee. A glass of wine. The woman has a birthmark on her wrist that looks like an oatmeal cookie, and she calls this God’s sense of humor. A new yellow sponge. A fistful of bubbles. A letter. An ice cube. The woman remembers her mother’s laugh. It has never once faded from her mind. An eyelash. A pinecone. A sweater that once belonged to someone else. A rubber ball. A basket. A spoon. A list of apologies, all of which are meant. A list of promises, all of which are kept.