When I can't breathe, I make lists.

• Finding sea glass.
• watching the tide come in.
• cotton candy. Blue. Always blue.
• butterflies landing on the hood of my jacket.
• having a ring to twirl.
• chocolate chip cookie dough.
• sunset.
• lilacs and fresh cut grass.
• bubbles.
• the burn of saltwater on superficial wounds.
• Edward Gorey.
• music. Never turn it off or down.
• licking your fingers after ribs or corn on the cob.
• lobster and scallops, eaten with a silver fork, outdoors in the wind.
  
• new earrings.
• a book so good you can't put it down.
• rainstorms and sun showers.
• a light breeze.
  
• stacks of new fun mail.
• a hot cup of very good coffee.
• playing card games in wet bathing suits.
• Someone else making dinner.
  
• Holding a baby/helping the littles.
• A clean quilt on a freshly-made bed.
• driving down the highway with all the windows open.
• broken stained glass.
• a roaring fire on a cool night.
• frog songs.
• snoring dogs.
• sleepy men.
  
• bad pictures, taken in excitement.
• the audible cue of a key in the front door lock or roar of an approaching motorcycle/truck/boat.
• long uninvited hugs.
• peace.
• a deep breath.
• seedy carnivals.
  
• light tans.
• braids.
• a crossed-off list.
• I love you, said with a smile.