Unfinished

Happiness was easier at age-five

days of discovery, when mistakes were

uh-ohs and retries rather than losses

and goodbyes, but—harder or not—we meet

often since I've questioned its absence.

When did mistakes become shameful?

When did pockets of sunshine turn into

cloudy items to perfect?  When did I

begin to notice scuffs on my saddle

shoes?  And when did they begin to pinch me?

Hmm?  You think too much!  My mother told me,

but what a pleasure it was to feel and

then to contemplate the sensation and

its before and after as if life was

a chess game I could play inside my head.

Chess was better than checkers and rummy

because there was more to ponder, like reading

a novel but with less certainty.  And

games returned with happiness—Scrabble this

time and writing novels I’d like to read.

Writing is harder but happier than

both thinking and chess, because here I play

with dolls again—characters I need not

bring physically to their tea parties in

diapers and dresses that need changing.

Happiness was easier at age five

but days of discovery are back with

uh-ohs and re-writes rather than losses

and goodbyes.  I am one of the lucky

ones, finding my younger self still alive.

Written for my own prompt

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Happiness.

Copyright © 2014  S.L.Chast