What does happiness feel like? She asks me. Like warmth,I say.
So you can’t be happy when you’re cold?
She looks confused.
Like simplicity, I explain.
Happiness isn’t ever hard? She asks.
It isn’t ever complex?
Like success, I try.
Can’t you stay happy in the face of failure? She looks worried.
Like softness, I say.
Like a tornado bursting through you,like a volcano erupting.
Happiness,I say,feels like gladness to be alive.
It feels like blanket forts and daisies and sunshine and rainstorms and old books and hidden book stores.
But I’m struggling.
She opens her mouth.
But no,that’s not it,I say.
What does happiness feel like?
She asks,a slightly pathetic note in her question,something between despair and dumb incomprehension.
Like being loved,I tell her,
And she’s finally silent,
weary of all those memories whispering in her skull.
Like loving,I say, and being loved in return.