This Is Happiness

by Niall Williams

When I did think of it, I was surprised that Christy was not more downtrodden by the impasse with Annie, and one evening approaching the village of Kilmihil, where Michael the Archangel himself had stopped, and where every man we met was called some version of Michael, I asked him why. He explained himself in a single sentence. ‘Noe,’ he said, and took a theatrical breath, ‘this, is happiness.’ I gave him back the look you give those a few shillings short of a pound. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Whenever I said that it used to drive my wife mad.’ ‘You were married?’ ‘I was. She left me for a better man. God bless her,’ he said, and nodded down the valley after the memory of her. He smiled, quoting himself: ‘This is happiness.’ It was a condensed explanation, but I came to understand him to mean you could stop at, not all, but most of the moments of your life, stop for one heartbeat and, no matter what the state of your head or heart, say This is happiness, because of the simple truth that you were alive to say it. I think of that often. We can all pause right here, raise our heads, take a breath and accept that This is happiness, and the bulky blue figure of Christy cycling across the next life would be waving a big slow hand in the air at all of us coming along behind him. ‘This is happiness,’ he affirmed once more, pushing off and gasp-pedalling the uphill away from further enquiry.