Happiness Is Fleeting

I woke at dawn this morning to a wet sky, stood at the S. bus stop at 7:45 am watching school children clad in gray uniforms climb onto small, rundown yellow buses. The weather now resembles Autumn in California, or (even closer to my heart), July storms in northern Saskatchewan when the sky is a mix of gray and blue and the wind stirs both hair and leaves.

I have been really, truly, wonderfully happy for the past couple of days. I am living in perfect simplicity and simple perfection. Sunday afternoon was spent sitting in the sun, watching the boys play cricket, New Zealand and British accents mixing with Punjabi calls, the long wavy hair of the young Sikh boys watching on the sidelines streaming as they ran to pick up stray balls. The light rain arrived in the afternoon, so V. and I sat inside the top room of his house with his sister, sharing oranges and guava, sipping on chai and discussing Valentine's Day and illegal labor in the United States to a soundtrack of rain and Punjabi Bhangra. As the afternoon faded we made our way to the wheat fields down a dirt footpath and stood around the new well as his mother and uncle gave offerings of porridge and incense to the gods.

But this is not forever. And it is not meant to be. It is exquisite because it is fleeting. This February-Autumn sky, the falling light rain, the cheerful welcomes of A. as I walk past her home on my way to M.'s shop, the fall of V.'s face when I decline chapatti or karna or tea. This is not forever. This too will end. This too shall pass. And its beauty will rest in prior instead of present days.

But this happiness is mine to hold, now. And it will be mine to remember. And it will be mine to earn again.