A full tea kettle always ready to whistle but not screaming. Perhaps I should like the heft of the kettle under my palm and fingers, enjoy the filling. Still I wish it were always full.
Also a silent person who puts the tea cup, with perfectly blended milk and no sugar, at my elbow, whom I do not thank but who knows I am thankful.
Beds that change their own sheets.
More tunnels.
I think maybe I would miss the snap of the sheets and the way I feel my mother is with me, at my elbow, watching every time I tuck a hospital corner. I would perhaps miss bobbing the tea bag by its string in the hot water, watching the swirls drift into the corner of the cup.
So I'll whittle my list down to one:
More tunnels to beautiful places.
And add one:
A yard full of mature maples and pines. I awaken one morning and there they are, standing in my yard like old uncles, hands shoved in corduroy pockets. They have always been in the room.
