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small happinesses
Apr. 27th, 2009 05:39 pmDear friend, if I could, I would give you a small happiness. You would come home to find, in the middle of your table, a small box wrapped in brown paper (a paper bag from Trader Joe's turned inside out and put to use), with no idea how it got there. It would have stickers, and your name in glittery handwriting, and would be tied with bit of string in honor of the song.
You would open your package and find your small bit of happiness, nestled inside, on top of newsprint from a week ago (I have already read the comics). It will look like the sky reflected in a puddle of water, brilliant blue and bright white clouds, or snow on the distant, misty mountains, or the almond orchards in bloom, a pink so pale they are nearly white, or a kitten not yet three weeks old, or a sunset so pink that no painter would ever dare to paint it. It will taste of warm peach cobbler, or cold vanilla homemade ice cream, or chocolate with raspberries, or friendship bread made with craisins and extra cinnamon, or peas picked fresh from the garden and warmed by the sun. It will smell of fresh sourdough bread, or hot cinnamon rolls, or sweetpeas in the moonlight, or roses on a warm twilight evening. It will feel like the soft fur of a puppy, or the soothing cold marble, or the silky smoothness of daisy petals, or the luxurious smoothness of silk that catches at all the imperfections on the tips of your fingers.
This is the small happiness that I would give you, that when you are sad, or lonely, or melancholy, you may look at it, or taste it, or smell it, or feel it, and it will be a small thing. You will be able to hold it in your two hands, cupped gently around it. This is the small happiness that I would give you, dear friend.
You would open your package and find your small bit of happiness, nestled inside, on top of newsprint from a week ago (I have already read the comics). It will look like the sky reflected in a puddle of water, brilliant blue and bright white clouds, or snow on the distant, misty mountains, or the almond orchards in bloom, a pink so pale they are nearly white, or a kitten not yet three weeks old, or a sunset so pink that no painter would ever dare to paint it. It will taste of warm peach cobbler, or cold vanilla homemade ice cream, or chocolate with raspberries, or friendship bread made with craisins and extra cinnamon, or peas picked fresh from the garden and warmed by the sun. It will smell of fresh sourdough bread, or hot cinnamon rolls, or sweetpeas in the moonlight, or roses on a warm twilight evening. It will feel like the soft fur of a puppy, or the soothing cold marble, or the silky smoothness of daisy petals, or the luxurious smoothness of silk that catches at all the imperfections on the tips of your fingers.
This is the small happiness that I would give you, that when you are sad, or lonely, or melancholy, you may look at it, or taste it, or smell it, or feel it, and it will be a small thing. You will be able to hold it in your two hands, cupped gently around it. This is the small happiness that I would give you, dear friend.