Just the Small Things


I’m going to build a factory where happiness is made, where it can be laid on every surface like a damp balloon popped in a water fight, there will not be a cathedral of light, no cinematic runs through airports, just the small things.


Like the memories you know are etched in rings, the taste of lemonade made from your lemons, so distinctly different from any others, the taste of your brothers name on your lips as you welcome him home. The foam on coffee,


the branch of the tree you fell from when you were six, the sticks whipping your ankles on the way down, and the shadow of a frown beneath your father’s smile, the coolness of tile beneath bare feet, the joy when you eat, and the feeling of a dog,


dreaming as it sleeps on your knees.


Playing scrabble with a child who announces with such conviction that she will become an astronaut, or a dolphin,


and she believes in it so wholly you cannot imagine it not coming true. The smiley face graffitied on a bathroom mirror, the steam becoming a canvas that can only ever repeat. The pad of feet on old carpets, smiles when you least expect them, the whispers of a voice declaring: you have come home. Home. Home.


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