The milk carton is empty. The produce drawer is barren.

At 8:30 on a Wednesday night the grocery store is largely deserted. I wander up and down the outer aisles trying to figure out what I want to eat for the next few days. Slowly I fill my basket. A box of tea, a head of broccoli, apples, carrots, mushrooms, spinach, milk, 3lbs of potatoes, leeks. I think I should be a farmer. Or at least put in a garden and cross my fingers for a frost-free July.

At the checkout, the clerk makes small talk. “Get out for anything fun, today?” A run, I say. A sloppy, chilly, dirty trail run where my feet were soaked a mile in and I still had more than an hour left to go. “Those are the best kind,” he says. He’s right, and I’m thankful to be reminded of it.

I don’t say prayers. I’m not religious. But more often than not, and even when things aren’t perfect, I try to start and end my day with a short  recognition of just how good I’ve got it. A heathen’s form of Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, undirected and informal, but wanting to be heard nonetheless.

Thank you for this day. For yesterday and tomorrow. Thank you for muddy trails and ankle deep puddles. Thank you for coffee and milk. Apples and peanut butter. Thank you for salmon colored ski pants and a skin track to follow quietly into the woods. Thank you for family and friends. Thank you for stories, music and the Moth Podcasts. Thank you for picking up the phone, for calling back. For smiling big first thing in the morning and at the end of a long day. Thank you for sunny days, and freezing rain. Thank you for everything. Thank you for this day.