the good stuff

shine on a soap bubble. butterfly wings, angel wings, bat wings. very small wrists. shoulders like the skulls of very small animals. sun-warmed apples. coffee with cream & sugar. sharp mustard on egg salad sandwiches. bright cobalt blue sweater. Fluffy playing Alice's Resterant into my voicemail. the way Banjo used to stay awake until he knew I was in the house, and woke up with me when I had to work the dead-of-morning shift, and how you could always hear him coming because his tags chimed together, and his shit-eat grin when we were chasing him when he lit his ear on fire while investigating the bottle rockets, the texture of his tongue on salty cheeks. big cocoa-powder-&-curry hands. the smell of Smack's hair on my hands after I brush it. Gale's laughter. Dad's I-am-so-proud-of-you smile. Mom's stern I-am-not-going-to-tell-you-again-but-I-don't-approve look. hand-written letters that look like the voice sounds. very-deep-red or sunset-colored roses. fuzzy white dandelions (& their wishes). robed monks (of preferablely eartern denominations) in airports who smile like good-natured children. very soft sweaters & old teddy bears. shards of mirror, or blue glass, or any glass found smoothed by it's enviorment (whether the street or the sea). yummy books. paper cranes. stars. art museums. open-air farmer/craft markets. hugs that are too ardent to worry about being polite. Indian techno mixes with heavy beats. bare feet in warm sand.