On being here, on living here, on being lived by me: one for the stone, two for the wind, three for the perfect sea.

I live in my heartbeat, in the taste of my coffee, in the lightheaded awe of looking up at trees, in the wind on my skin, surprisingly cool on a bright summer morning, startling goose bumps.

Other people gathered porcelain figurines, or commemorative plates, or coins, or rare stamps, or thimbles. Mrs. Thornby gathered dust.

The soul needs quiet to find itself.