I would choose an ordinary day—or maybe a collage of ordinary days—the kind stitched together from small, perfect moments. A Saturday morning watching cartoons and eating pancakes for breakfast. The sounds of my Aunt Mary preparing food in the kitchen, the delicious aroma of slow-cooked hot chocolate, bacon, and maple syrup, and the anticipation of my friends Eddy and Susanna coming over for brunch before we spent the rest of the day playing monster and chasing each other around my room.
In that same collage, I would return to quieter moments as well: sticking the first moon-landing stickers into a keepsake booklet, listening to my 45s on my little bedside record player, and feeling certain I was loved unconditionally.
Then another simple day would appear: building an igloo in the snow with my brother Richard at my grandparents’ house on Long Island, surrounded by powdered snow and birch trees, the crisp smell of new snow, and the distant scent of wood burning in a stove.
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