Harboring Happiness - Day 4

Today in harboring happiness, I wake to the hound who holds half my heart curled next to me in bed. No other friends to meet today, we snuggle for half an hour. His brother is sprawled on the floor dreaming of chasing birds.

This morning’s barista always burns the coffee and has no plans of improving. She is too busy building worlds. Saturday, I will make two cups before eleven.

Happiness inventories the shambolic pantry for ingredients to bake focaccia. The hounds and I nap until the dough rises.

Bad news comes quickly, and we can’t fight it. Hours turn to seconds.

Happiness plans to stay up late and peeks around each corner eager to remind me of everything worth holding closely, but I am lost in a whirlwind.

Howling, almost strangers get ready for a concert in the bathroom downstairs. I think of young nights — glitter, platform boots, and finding myself in the music. Then, drowsy mornings, picking up the pieces just long enough to make it back home, wherever that is, and melt into the mattress.

Happiness finds me again through the window at sunset when the palm trees suspended in the blue and orange become the snapshot of a better year.

I will fall asleep hoping that lingering grief somehow settles better in the daylight hours. In harboring happiness, I thank it for harboring me instead.