Harboring Happiness - Day 2

Today in harboring happiness, I savor the scent of clean laundry and realize that plans we make for ourselves are more important than promises we carelessly dole out to others. Filling the garbage bin, I trade the sting of rejection for the sentiment that strangers aren’t always meant to become best friends. Sometimes, they are too busy getting married or raising kids, and that’s okay.

Happiness reminds me that, although I am on a very different hike of life, I will eventually find other wanderers who know this winding trail, however many miles in.

Getting coffee from the quiet barista who takes his job seriously and observes peaceful mornings, I don’t ask him about the tattoo on his forearm that resembles a carrot. Happiness imagines he has a pet rabbit at home.

Driving to meet friends whose favorite part about me is the ziploc full of crunchy treats, I spot a local honey stand and wonder if the beekeeper watches their swarm the same way I do birds — transfixed by their nature.

In the field that has memorized my anchoring footwork and their lolling tongues, a jackrabbit bolts from behind a shrub, and I must remind my four-legged friends that we are not chasing the bunnies today. When I grow weary of my 10,000 steps, I picture the cage of endless emails from which I escaped to play jump rope with leashes instead.

My cheekbone hosts a frustrated tear, glistening under the lazy sun, when a woman, whose fence does not sag, scolds my golden friend for resting only half of his feet in her grass. Happiness reminds me that most people have forgotten about hopscotching finches and the boundless curiosity of a hound’s nose. I must hold these silly little things closely because of the ones who won’t.

Watching pool cleaners drag nets through the water, my friend who is named after a Norse god asks, “What are they catching?” “Money fish,” I tell him. “Are they yummy?” he questions. “Not sure,” I admit.

Then, happiness enlightens me that older than the gold standard is the currency of smiles. I give one to my friend who awaits a nibble of jerky for being so patient. Three passing athletes gawk at how big he is, and I wonder if they have ever play wrestled with giants who give kisses kinder than most of their exes.

Alone in the car, talking to myself, happiness answers that if it were a bird, it would like to be a quail. I pay it a smile for listening. In harboring happiness, I will keep all the shrubbery of my front yard untrimmed so it can hide there if ever it feels too scared.