Harboring Happiness - Day 3

Today in harboring happiness, I wear a baggy, sage green t-shirt with the printwork of an iguana riding a bicycle. I smile at the silliness of it all.

Crossing town to meet friends who will boisterously complain when I am only five minutes late, I see a motorcyclist who looks exactly like my used-to-be best friend, an almost I still let myself hold closely.

A silver snoot pokes out from the back window of a monstrous blue Toyota. Happiness imagines the best part of retirement is the daily exchange of the wind and its secrets, when you finally have enough time to spend.

A little family rides the sidewalk in a golf cart by the resort where people go to forget we are in the desert. I pass by seven places to eat tacos, three schools, and a warehouse where Atlas teaches you how to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders.

My birdwatching partners and I skip over two hopscotch grids: one for tiny feet and the other for parents because, as happiness reminds me, it has prescribed them enjoyment as well. Yellow blossoms fall from trees like autumn leaves, pressed as if stickers on curious, tan snoots.

Ordering coffee from the distant barista with perfect nails, happiness tells me she is anxiously awaiting a text message from her own almost. I hope she gets it.

With my careful friend, who is named after a gorgeous island and believes the entire neighborhood is hers, I observe June bugs hovering like hummingbirds and wonder where the beekeeper is today. Happiness says they are on a date with someone who preserves berry jam, sharing secrets and a cup of their favorite boba tea.

In the cool escape of a home that is finally beginning to feel like my own, happiness and I kiss the hounds who have missed us, pink and brown snoots still untouched by the silvering of age.

I begin to not hate pictures of myself at 4:37 p.m. when the sun has turned my eyes into a glistening pond, clouded with algae and moss, on which specks of mysterious loons settle.

I must enjoy these daylight hours. In harboring happiness, I know, like a joint-custody parent, it will leave tonight with the sun.