There was something about two tiny kittens in the palm of my hand.
Something about me being a school girl with a backpack.
There was something about lost shoes, about walking home, having to retrace my steps.
Something about finding two parts of myself: a dowdy, middle-aged woman and a young girl, and me waving them both back in.
I think there was something about working late, and eating dessert and maybe there was a book about math in a box.
Something about my lost love returning.
Something about two Adirondack chairs buried in the slope of a hill in my back yard.
Something about the bathroom in the retreat center.
And meeting a male professor who is round-faced and balding and who teaches nothing of any interest to me.
Something about my mother scolding me.
About riding on the back wheel of a motorcycle — no seat — and thank god it’s only a short ride.
And my yoga teacher is heating something on a cookstove she brought to my house when I invited her for tea.
Something about telling my friend’s ailing daughter that laughter and smiles are the best medicine, and if she can’t laugh and smile herself, she should accept her sisters’ laughter and smiles instead.
And that makes it easier for the sisters to go to the festival and have fun.
And that’s all I can remember.
For now.