dry leaves piled up high in the street gutters, so tall that small children wading through are covered up to their necks
the smell of cut grass and hose water—sprinkler water
claddagh rings and crucifixes blessed by the Pope (which Pope?) and rosaries and saints’ medals
hooded sweatshirts—so many that rows of them hang unused in the basement, rediscovered occasionally on visits home
the fear of being unprepared, and of cicadas and their crunchy shells
everything in a Ziploc bag
tea at night with sugar and a plate for the tea bag
the scar on my knee from sledding down the ravines in the old neighborhood
the yellow and seafoam green of our kitchen
the way my dad laughs on the phone with his relatives
dominoes, Sequence, hearts
my grandmother’s olive carpet and squeaky floor
Paparazzi for birthdays
breakfast out for Sundays
taking a jacket
leaving the light on so when you come home late you feel like you are missed
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