The sound that rings across the field when the ball meets the baseball bat. The redness of beets. The sight of my mother cutting my father's hair. Latte foam. Bare feet. The way your name sounds when someone who loves you is the one saying it. Incense burning on the windowsill. The awkward way affection makes people stare and blush. Climbing higher than you've ever gone in a tree you've always hoped to conquer. Being remembered. Songs that come on just when you need to hear them. Bringing someone a cup of coffee—and having them be utterly delighted by that tiny gesture of love. Pugs. Children running up to the edge of the sea and shrieking. Random conversations in the supermarket. Getting an email you've been waiting for. Making faces across the dinnertable. Realizing that someone else finds the same things to be beautiful. Musicians in Central Park. The nervous laughter brought on by the sounds of a ketchup bottle. The steady beat of the kitchen sink's drip. Driving fast with all of the windows rolled down on a summer evening. Good-natured teasing. Rope swings. Purposely capsizing the canoe. Jumping into a lake without premeditation. Singing at the top of your lungs when you're the only one home. Gratitude. Wading in a stream in the winter. Buttercups in a field. Warm sun through windowpanes. People carrying flowers. Jars of homemade jam. The endearing way noses are shaped. Hearing a beloved song again for the first time in years. A hug that's not too short. The sound of the coffeepot percolating. Mud on jeans. Flour on the kitchen floor and warmth from the oven. Doors that are too heavy to open on your own. The way the grass is cool and damp in the shade. Old postcards. John Wayne. The smell of pipesmoke. The curve of eyelashes.