Warm cookies. Cuddles from puppies and small children. Rainy Saturdays with nowhere to go. A deep and complex purfume that smells of lily. Perfectly round and smooth hard boiled eggs, the yolk soft and fully yellow. Grass without bugs. The slight friction of my tango shoes on a wood floor. Deep temperate water in a clear pool. Warm sand to bury and unbury my toes in. Light watercolor patterned scarves. Wine as smooth as silk.
Enough sleep. So much of my mood depends on how much or little sleep I get, and I have not slept well since July.
And beneath that wish and my lack of sleep, much deeper, is the hollow fearful emptiness of loss and death, and the knowledge that my small happinesses would hardly mask it, even were I to obtain them all.