Pocket of Happiness

I found myself in one of those little bits of time I sometimes call pockets of happiness. Of course when I call them that I want to throw up and yet that's the little phrase that's in my head. It's one of those small stretches of time when things are perfect. In this case I was on the front porch, about 6:30 in the evening, the temperature was at the place where you don't feel hot or cold, just a slight breeze. The light is perfect, if you know me you know how much I love the perfect evening light, no matter the time of year, and I'm surrounded by green from my front garden which is very happy right now and not completely dessicated by that cruel bitch of a Missouri summer. I'm watching my son and his friend running amok with water pistols, chasing each other in and around the car in the driveway, using it as cover. The trilling of a delighted kid's voice is pretty special, a half a tone from being irritating but full of completely unconscious happiness. I think we tone ourselves down as we get older, afraid to immerse, afraid to totally commit to a moment. But then as I'm gazing at the loveliness of the sky, the little stuff that floats around in the golden light, listening to them argue over who is dead and who needs water I'm ambushed, soaked and I let out a squeal that was just half a tone from irritating. I grab a water pistol and totally nail the neighbor's kid while my son in his Wolverine mask manages to get us both. The dogs are barking and I can hear a lawn mower and wow, even a frickin' ice cream truck. And even though I'm sure it's being driven by a sex offender I'll buy if he comes around.
Sure I need to feed the kid and do the laundry and figure out how we're going to keep going and get my mom moved and all that other stuff but for about ten minutes every single thing in the world was as it should be. I'm grateful for those little pockets of happiness even though I really should find something else to call them.