Back After This

by Linda Holmes

“Whatever. Anyway, tell me about your trip.” Molly and Pete had just gotten back from a getaway in Ocean City, so I made her tell me about every day they were gone, every walk and every meal. I asked her about the weather, I grilled her about what they saw on the boardwalk, and I nailed down every detail of their hotel room from the windows to the rug to the cat who lived in the lobby. I wanted to tour her happiness and run my fingers over the corners and the edges. I found contentment in general very reassuring. As the news got more and more depressing, and I got older, and the work I so loved was swamped by stories about murder and shows where L.A. comedians invited friends over to talk for three hours about nothing, the idea of simple good days had started to seem implausible to me. I’d started to think about real happiness as not just precious but owned, kept, borrowed, shared, stolen, divided, and sacrificed. When I was around it, I wanted to eat it, almost, like a cupcake. Happy kids, happy dogs, happy crowds, they were irresistible.