Spreading peanut butter on one piece, a thin smear of seedless jelly on the other. I can do it with my eyes closed.
Tying my running shoes.
Side mirror, rearview, side mirror. Hitting the break before I know exactly why I’m stopping.
Pouring coffee. I listen to the sound it makes as it fills, stop when it’s just full enough.
Walking by my son, I tossle his hair.
Typing.
Turning the knobs on the washing machine. One, two, three turns to get to the right cycle.
The dog’s complicated harness for her walks.
Running up the hill on Royal Ave.
Washing my hair, my face.
The “hi” I have for my mom when we call each other.
Stirring onions in olive oil.
Speaking on the first day of class.
Speaking on the last day of class.
Mowing the yard.
More than your mind, I would like to live a day with your habits.
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