The little red fish that curls in my hand, a black plastic spider ring, the Chinese finger trap, woven and tricolored—pink, green, and white.
That chocolate mint on the hotel pillow, a cup of tea, another cup of tea.
Touching. Quiet touching. In bed, in front of the TV, in the car. Doing something else, but touching, a small surface contact of warm friendly skin.
Half Moon Bay, Seattle, Chicago. Rice pudding, butter, mac & cheese.
A bird in hand.
Spinach growing in the garden. Gardens.
One two three eggs lovers oceans. A long jump over the ditch—successful.
Turning the page. Leaving you behind. Knowing that, at least, I am not with you now, not anymore. Knowing that at least I have that.
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