An Incomplete List of Gratitudes On November 26

After work last night, I walked to the grocery store. It was dark and drizzling. I put on my raincoat and my hat, tucked an umbrella into my bag, and thought about how nice it is to be prepared for the elements. And as I looped past the grocery store, catching up with my father on the phone, watching the water trip off my cap’s brim, I realized I didn’t mind the rain at all. It made me think about what else I more than don’t mind or rather, what else I am grateful for.

It took less time to clean the apartment tonight than I anticipated. It helped that there was fun music playing. When I realized I was almost out of pecans, I hesitated going out to procure more until I remembered how much better cinnamon rolls are when they’re stuffed with pecans. I’m glad I went out. They’re always better with pecans.

Multi colored tomatoes and the way the top of my quiche radiates yellows and oranges and reds. The differentiation between vegan pigs in a blanket and vegan breakfast pigs in a blanket because the latter skews morning and feels right for 8:00 AM.

Turmeric ginger tea. The promise of a parade. My friend’s art newsletter. When the food you need from the market is on sale. 

Every morning, I pull the curtains in every room. I watch the light pour in. I revel in the changing colors of the biggest tree on the street and the ways its branches reach out to me on the top floor. Streets littered with leaves. The staircase too. 

The way I’ve been counting down the days until I’m reunited with very important dogs in my life. The way I have a friend in a country I plan to visit next year to seek recommendations from. The way my parents are smiling in that picture with my brother and sister-in-law.

A fall candle whose purchase supported an animal rescue. A delightfully rich chocolate bar. The improbable stacking of my nightstand books. A new music obsession.

Clean dish towels. Lemon cough drops. My stuffed animal polar bear I named Pistachio because the year I got him was also the year I discovered pistachio ice cream and wouldn’t stop talking about it for months. I was in my twenties. 

Late nights. Gentle mornings. Sunrises. Quiet afternoons. Asking friends for a cobbler recommendation and having the response be a clarification of whether it’s the shoe kind or the apple kind. Having a (shoe) cobbler now to recommend. Having the resources to bake the fruit kind.

Time. Space. Togetherness. The realization that I could write for days and not scratch the surface. 

You. Me. This. Us. The chance to start again tomorrow.