The stuff that feels small now is the stuff you’ll describe in detail to your kids one day.

The things you will describe in detail decades from now are not the ceremonies. They are the walk home, the song that was always playing, the exact shop where you got food after practice. Those details survive because they were everywhere and unexamined, which is also why you cannot pick out now which ones they will be.

Write five lines this week about a completely normal day, including what you ate and who was there. It will feel pointless, and it is the only version of that day you will ever have.