Sometimes the broken light bulb flickering erratically. And others the honey put into warm tea. Sharpened number two pencils or banana flavored milk. I am the smiling sun on a crayon-drawn family portrait hung on the refrigerator door. A caution sign, calloused hands, lit candles on a desk. I am the infection of a wound, the murky sky after a fire, the first place prize. The ring hidden deep within the pocket of a man with clammy palms. Raincoats, taxis on a bustling street, fallen leaves on an October evening.