It seems moot, at a certain point
to overthink happiness. Yet sitting
on the couch comfortably wine-drunk
on the first windy evening of the week
I wonder how much of it is more
than the absence of sadness. Here are
some things that have happened
lately: Last night I cut my finger
making celebratory soup. It was quiet
and didn’t hurt. The day before that
I finally understood what it meant to be
somewhere I could see the sunset from
my living room window, the pink streaks,
the painted-on golds. That one last burst
of light. I still have a fully-formed memory
from more than a decade ago of a stranger
in California who went up to me on the street
and told me to zip up my coat. How I’d tried
to pretend I‘d known all along that was
the way to stop shivering. How I wish I’d had
the grace to say thank you. I think of how
hearing “you’re not the only one having
a hard time” might feel like a reprimand.
But also like consolation, if I listen
more closely. I think of how consolation
is so underrated. How it never sounds
like it’ll do. I think of all the consolation
I never even asked for. My wine-drunk
self. My wine-drunk friends. Our benign
buzz and sleepy smiles. My wine-drunk
friends and their sober choices
and every single chance I get
to be alone. Expecting something
to hurt but realizing it doesn’t.
Expecting anything to hurt, because
at least I’ll be careful. Pinks and golds
through a window. All that light
finding its way around. Finding
a way somehow. Keeping
the cold out, tucking my chin in,
and settling safely into
what I’ve known all along.
🍷
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