But I can tell you this

But I can tell you that I notice things more, especially pretty things, like the bed of tiny wild white flowers growing on the side of the road, pinpoints of starlight amid a field of green. And the huge orange rose blooming out of Scott’s rundown garden, a miniature sun in a universe of dead leaves. I notice the exact curve of June’s little cat cheeks as she rests her chin on my blanket. And piano keys, so straight and orderly like teeth, begging me to place my fingers on them and bring them to life. I even notice the soggy, muddy newspaper laying on the sidewalk, squished and sad in its package, either carelessly discarded or never collected by its intended recipient.

I have found myself taking pictures of flowers and I think it’s because of you.


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