postcards from the edge
We have been walking, our hands to our eyes that do not seek the sun, backs slicked with sweat. We have been running, too, but we did not know it then; it only became apparent once we stopped and felt the breeze again. We are exhausted. We are exhilarated.
And what have we learned? Nothing, perhaps, except what we have already known: that happiness exists, is real and tangible in big and small. It’s there, in ice cubes clinking at a Coke’s end in a sweating glass and there, too, coming in through windows flung open. I think I spotted it tucked between the pages of a gift, honest and thoughtful, or maybe resting in the expectant curve of a lover’s neck as it slid beneath the covers. Was that it, bearing witness from the shadows beneath the bridge or the sidelines of a parade or a park in the heat? It was leaning against the door as I came through and watched as I dropped the small weight of my keys in the basket that makes up their home and mine.
But these are glimpses, in truth, and fleeting – none as certain or as durable as the quiet contentment that stays in the heft of our escaping breaths as we collapse into bed, legs tired, bellies full, seams bursting.