We do not remember days; we remember
moments—the sudden burst of laughter
over breakfast, the way rain taps at
windows during an afternoon nap.
The scent of pine during a walk,
the surprise of a deer in the woods,
pausing as if to offer a secret.
Small interventions of time that
light up like matches in the dark,
the touch of a hand unexpectedly
warm, an old song on the radio
easing traffic\'s aggravation. It is
never the whole day that stays, only
fragments—tiny, stubborn diamonds
of joy, sorrow, surprise, lodged in our
memories, glittering constellations
in the sky of all our yesterdays.