It’s the postman’s tread on my front porch.
It’s the tea kettle’s whistle that goes ignored for minutes because the laughter in the other room is too loud.
It’s the stains of strawberry juice tracing the wood grains of a cutting board.
It’s the shutter’s click as bodies jostle for position, freeze, say cheese, and relax into giggles.
It’s the patchwork of fields seen from 10,000 feet as I wing from Pennsylvania to Arizona and back again.
It’s the grumble of the ice cream maker as it munches on chocolate and raspberries.
It’s the recipe on today’s tongue that revives memories of my six-year-old tongue.
It’s the click of the front door and the first breath of air that greets me.
It’s the faces that sag and crease and dot with age and the eyes that still sparkle and flash and dart with love.
It’s the wrinkled sheets still warm from a tiny body.
It’s the things I can’t pack in my luggage.