When someone you love dies, you will remember the oddest and most ordinary things.

My mother, for instance, who died when I was in college, would always leave the last bite of her sandwich uneaten, claiming she was too full for more. Then I grew up and did the exact same thing, unconsciously mind you, which made sandwich eating its own kind of grief counseling.

I can’t remember a single trip we took, other than to visit family, though surely we must have taken vacations together. But I vividly recall counting down the seconds until some perfect stranger turned around in their seat on a bus or in a restaurant to tell my mother their life story, even though all she did was smile and nod along.

I’m constantly telling my family we should focus on creating memories. I say it so much it’s become a bit of a joke. But I wonder now if that’s not a bit of my social competitiveness coming out. Looking at everyone else’s far-flung vacations or weekend excursions can leave me feeling a bit … less than, as social media is so good at doing. It’s not so much that I’m missing out, but that the catalog of places I’ve gone and things I’ve done, recently anyway, says something about me that I’m not always comfortable with.

Sometimes I think the joke of making memories might be more precious than the trips we took to make them.

It’s not like we haven’t taken some epic trips in our day. But what my daughter remembers most about Hawaii is the hotel’s pool and water slide, and what she loved best about Versailles was getting an ice cream cone. In fairness, she was only five and we are, apparently, very stingy parents when it comes to ice cream.

I’m not suggesting we tear up our bucket lists. But I do wonder if those grand aspirations cause us to gloss over the ordinary but important moments of life, as we’re living them. I wouldn’t give up paddling the fjords of Norway or cruising the Galapagos Islands for anything, but I’m telling you right now that no one, not even me, will think of it when I’m on my deathbed. It’s much more likely my family will recall how I belted out Doja Cat songs while wearing my noise canceling earphones, oblivious to my own volume. Or the cold, foggy days we all cuddled on the couch to watch Knives Out or Hamilton, arguing over who got the cat on their lap.

And then there are the “tiny rituals of life,” as poet Marie Howe describes them—folding clothes, making tea, feeling the pull of the comb while getting your hair cut. Sweeping is nice. Or listening to the shush of water while you take a shower. Turning off the lights one by one until you crawl between soft sheets and your eyes slide closed.

Perhaps what I’m saying is that the exotic adventures are like dessert and the ordinary moments are like vegetables. And life, knowing what we need, offers up a huge buffet of vegetables—green beans, squash, peas, beets, roasted mushrooms. They are abundant and delicious. But we keep focusing on the donuts and the cupcakes and the cookies, wondering why we don’t feel so good.

Howe instructs her students to write ten observations of the actual world every week. Such a poet thing to do. Her students find it hard, she says, because they don’t think it’s important enough. They want to get to the next thing, or compare it to something else. They find it uncomfortable to just be with a glass of water.

I’ve always thought the thrill seekers wanted something to remind them that they are alive, perhaps because, when we are closed off to the sacredness of the everyday, we feel dead inside. That’s not a judgment. I’ve been there myself. On any given day I can get caught up in the rush of what I’ve accomplished or hope to. Who doesn’t?

But I am a poet too, now a middle-aged poet, living in a pandemic that helpfully reminds me of my mortality daily. This, my friend, this (imagine me here, gesturing broadly), is the essence of life.

Relish it.