Family, love, friends, travel, childhood, and other good memories
My happiest hour was not a trip. It was rain, and you drying your hair with my towel, and neither of us trying to be impressive. If someone asks what my life was for, tell them about that evening. The towel is more accurate than any list of achievements.
Someone lent me a coat that was not mine, and I got through the winter. I never learned their full name. I keep that hour as warmth, not as a debt. Happy memories are often small handoffs. I hope the next cold street has a coat for them too.
We already knew we were leaving, and the sea was still beautiful. We did not take many pictures. We sat. Joy and sorrow shared one afternoon. I refuse to file that day only under loss. For an hour we were on the same side of the water.
I rode in front of my father's bicycle and could not open my eyes against the wind. He told me to look forward. I remember the width of his back better than the destination. He was careful with the brakes. That care was his affection. I understood it only after I carried someone else.