She made the list at two in the morning.
Not a bucket list. Not a gratitude list. A specific, practical list of reasons — small, ordinary reasons — that she was noting down because the night had gotten heavy and someone had once told her that when the night gets heavy you should make a list.
She started with the obvious ones and ran out quickly. Then she went smaller.
The particular smell of her coat, which she loved.
The book on her bedside table she hadn't finished.
The way her neighbour's cat sometimes sat on the wall outside her window and looked at her with complete indifference and she found this, for reasons she couldn't explain, comforting.
The bread from the bakery two streets over that she only had on Saturdays.
Her sister's laugh.
A conversation she was supposed to have next week that she was, unexpectedly, looking forward to.
The list got longer than she'd expected. She'd expected to run dry at five or six. She was at twenty-three and still going.
She put the pen down.
The night was still heavy. The list hadn't made it light. But she could see through it, now, the ordinary structure of a life that was worth being in. Not despite the difficulty. Inside it. Woven through it.
She set her alarm for seven.
She went to sleep.
The reasons are there. You just have to look for them.
