the sound of my dad’s guitar playing his favorite chords the typing of my mom’s fingers going through family records the smell of the ceramics studio full of the kiln, dust and glaze the running home
it’s the little things they always say like how you listen more than you ever have before or how you stopped opening my car door like how you squeeze me tighter in our hugs or how you don’t answer me
We're here through thick and thin like letting me borrow a bobby pin, or confessions in Denny's at 3 am. Y'all always spoil me with pointless pacts and share my love for artifacts. I never would have