Here’s what I have.

I have the rude rats, the 311 on speed dial, the bits and bobs of human waste and pantyhose, the melancholy pizza place on the corner selling by the slice, never a line yet always lit up.

Here’s what I miss.

Violets blooming in November in my parents west-facing landscaping. Their bright purple like a firework against the frozen solid ground, muted and fading greens of grass, like the brightness of the green had a can of low white paint mixed in, diluting, depressing.

They were a surprise to me.

But not to my mom.

Buttercups in the spring, in the woods, and into the summer. If you eat them they taste sweet, like butter. Little yellow chalices so prim and proper.