Happiness
       

He hadn't been drinking, not for a Long Time, but things
were very very and she feared a slip and the puzzling remarks
on the radio that morning, a man parsing genes like a tax
collector, 40% you're stuck with, 60% can go either way. Not
to forget chemical imbalances that may seem joyful but leave
a person sad and angry and frustrated, ravines her mind
wandered, courting easier, distracting thoughts: quarrels
with friends, grocery store lists. When suddenly there he
was, in the kitchen on the stool, feeling, well OK, looking
miserable. Head down, chin on his chest, he quietly said
he wanted to go to hell. Happiness, the radio had said, is
mostly found in small daily instances with occasional, merely
occasional, mind you, spurts of great joy. But what about
the nameless and faceless times, the random solitary hours,
the body of bones rattling through empty rooms once
renown for light glossing the windows, sofa, chair, table,
bookcase, turning everything into a creature of light, alive
and glowing. Wordless. And slowly she felt, yes, she should
say it, acknowledge it, a kind of coo-coo pleasure. Possibly
a spurt.

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Copyright © 2017 Sharon Chmielarz All rights reserved
from little eternities
Nodin Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission