When she was young, she wanted to know what happiness was. They told her happiness was good, the opposite of sad, the face with a smile.
Once, she thought she’d worked it out. That happiness was love, it was intense connection followed by devastating loss. But that wasn’t right either.
But now she knows the truth.
Happiness is a place.
Happiness is a kitchen with no cheese, a porch with a woven seat, crosswords in bed.
It’s blue walls, a black leather couch, wooden stools, terrible smoothies.
Happiness is people.
Happiness is long brown hair, perfect eyeliner, a crinkled nose, a sarcastic comment.
It’s plaid shirts, stupid nicknames, messy curls, kind eyes.
Happiness is having someone’s back and knowing that they have yours.
Happiness is this.