I got to hold the babies and pet all the dogs. I got to fold warm laundry. Blow out birthday candles. Take naps. I got to walk down ordinary streets and notice beautiful things. Flower gardens. A child drawing galaxies in chalk. An old man and his wife sharing headphones on the porch. I got to plant things. Herbs. Hopes. Small brave things. I got to fall asleep wrapped in the pages of books. I got to buy penny candy, a blue bike, art, a home. I got to close my eyes in a nest built of my children. I got to see the sky trade its August blue for a handful of stars. I got to hold hands with her. And with life when it didn’t know how to be beautiful. I got to outgrow versions of myself that feel like old postcards now. I got to be a traveller. Of the foreign country of the everyday. And of the world. I got to know the privilege it is to walk 25,000 steps in a beautiful place that isn’t home. I got to love people who were messy and miraculous like wildflowers growing through concrete. I got to know that the good old days were happening to me in real time. That they were always golden. I got to reach for the cookies. For courage and joy. For two arms to hold me. For this life. I probably could have loved it better sometimes. But I could not have loved it more.