I love...

  
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Inspired by Alex Dimitrov’s incredible poem, “Love,” I wrote this. Write one, too? Or even just a few lines?

I love rye toast at diners.

I love finishing a book.

I love being cold alone in a bed at the moment when he slips in and spoons me, his body warm with residual motion.

I love my neighbor’s comedic timing. I love watching her make my other neighbors laugh.

I love when 2-year-olds say things they don’t fully understand, but get the rhythm and tone of adult communication perfect.

I love sinking a 3-pointer.

I love walking beside honest, smart women.

I love eavesdropping on my daughter’s imaginary world.

I love the first swig of Racer 5 from a glass bottle.

I love the smells of lilac, eucalyptus, coffee, and basil.

I love finishing leftovers. Nothing wasted.

I love when I feel like there is so little time left—it all matters. I love when I feel like there is so much time left—none of it matters.

I love listening to people saying something vulnerable and true to a group of other people listening.

I love how insignificant Redwoods make me feel.

I love my mother’s cowgirl boots and oxtail soup. I love her garden art.

I love when the subway finally pulls into the station at 3am. Relief.

I love how boundaried cats are.

I love reading to children. I love the questions they ask when I’m reading to them.

I love chickpeas.

I love being alone.

I love freckles and gap-toothed smiles. This is because my best friend in 3rd grade had both.

I love old people’s hands, especially if their knuckles are bulbous like my grandmothers were.

I love Lauryn Hill’s verse on “Ready or Not.”

I love making eye contact with a very pregnant woman and saying with my mind, “You got this!”

I love all the men who have been so loving towards my body.

I love the first and last scene in a movie. I love sitting in the dark watching.

I love Ruffles, cottage cheese, and The Oprah Winfrey Show circa 1996.

I love wrestling with my daughter.

I love noticing something with a stranger.

I love asking questions.

I love giving toasts.

I love treating money like energy rather than an object.

I love the river, how it obliterates time.

I love being of use.

I love only one pair of earrings.

I love having friends outside of my generation.

I love the feeling of a well-organized drawer.

I love my brother’s exuberance, the scar on his finger, the boys he is raising.

I love a hot bagel, iced coffee, the newspaper, and a blanket in Prospect Park.

I love not quite understanding, wanting to.

I love when people surprise you by changing.

I love when I surprise myself by changing.

I love giving up sometimes, the lightness of that.

I love fireplaces.

I love cemeteries.

I love nursing babies.

I love reading in silence in a room with other people reading in silence.

I love Bonnie Raitt and Patty Griffin.

I love nurses and teachers.

I love the euphoria after a headache.

I love collage and street photography. Romare Bearden. Sally Mann.

I love introducing people.

I love keeping the main thing the main thing.

I love when my baby says, “For real?”

I love when my dad says, “Is that right?”

I love many people who have died and some who are yet to be born.

I love that.