The Day Itself

Not every day
has to become a memory.

Some are made entirely of
toast eaten over the sink,
a song played twice,
the dog snoring through
the best part of the afternoon,
a voice from another room
saying your name
as if it belongs there.

Nothing remarkable happened.
No lesson announced itself.
You did not become
a different person.

You were alive.
Something was good.
You noticed.

That is not a small thing.