I haven't been writing things down, but I want to remember looking at S across a table full of Mexican food while we talk about the ways we need to love.
The vase of slowly fading mums on my desk at work, and the reasons why fall is (still) so good for my soul.
The quivering, sensitive, almost-crying face my son makes when he's overwhelmed and the way my heart echoes back.
The way it feels to mash my feet into the pedals of the bike, pistoning my legs faster and faster down the hill so I can crest the top of the next one at a glide.
The raspy laugh of the baby's hilarious, cotton haired great-great-aunt, the one who mispronounces 'peony' and to whom we are (what's yours is mine) in debt.
Sore wrists. Nodding off at my desk. Bare feet even in the cold.
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