Pause

But what’s the best way to do it? She asks, exasperated. How do I know if I’m doing it right? A lifetime of perfectionism deep in her bones, she doesn’t remember how to find something for which to be grateful. I’m just afraid that if I think of something good, I’ll instantly remember all the bad and how anything can be snatched away from us at a whim.

I wrote my list without expectation, saw drunk scribbles from a night before and laughed at how often sunshine repeated. It’s only weather, yet here it is etched in ink, over and over and over. My heart swells thinking of a stranger's smile, a lucky turn of events, witnessing sweet winks from the city between its citizens. I go to bed too late, too tired, yet I do not mind the fast approaching alarms. When I look back on this day a year from now, do think maybe I’ll just write this day on my list, and that will be enough?