This Thing We Call Happy

Happiness in the smallest moments of life

By Radist on iStock (image licensed by author)

Delayed, oversold, screaming customers rejected
at the gate. Five hours stranded in Satan’s waiting room,
better known as the Atlanta airport.

People so close I smell their stress, their faces the look
of those entering the fourth ring of hell. Get me on
the plane, give me a drink, let me sleep all the way
to San Francisco I pray.

Aisle seat, first class, front row, wine in hand, door
closing, the seat next to me open. A merciful universe
has blessed me… oh no, no, I hear them before I see
them, the shrill screams of an overtired three-year-old,
the experienced cussing of a mother beyond stressed,
kicking a stroller refusing to close, leaving it crumbled
on the jet bridge for the Delta guy to stomp on a little.

Snot covered face on the kid, two overflowing
kid bags, a purse the size of my first Volkswagen,
sacks of food, a water bottle. She piled it all on
the floor, pulling out snacks, handing the bags
to a flight attendant trying to stuff them overhead.