A friend I haven't seen or spoken to in years, speaks to me in a gift I find while cleaning out a drawer: a little jewelry box and in it a small scrolling paper bearing a message about dreams, beauty, and light. Her name signed at the bottom.
Ray Charles sang the best rendition of "America the Beautiful" I've heard so far.
A paper made indigestible by jargon.
Napping on a hot afternoon is the best way to stay clear of trouble.
Purple hydrangea blossoms and books neatly stacked on my newly tidied desk.
Without knowing it, they push me towards making the same unsuitable choices as before.
The rumble of fireworks and the sigh and shout of the crowds are pierced from time to time by an ambulance or firetruck wailing in the distance.