Small Pleasures

by Clare Chambers

Never before had she considered that all these experiences that had nearly demolished her had built her into something better.

‘I was just thinking, I wish I’d found you years ago.’ ‘You make me sound like a lost glove,’ Jean laughed. ‘Well that’s a good image. The missing half of a pair.’

Small pleasures – the first cigarette of the day; a glass of sherry before Sunday lunch; a bar of chocolate parcelled out to last a week; a newly published library book, still pristine and untouched by other hands; the first hyacinths of spring; a neatly folded pile of ironing, smelling of summer; the garden under snow; an impulsive purchase of stationery for her drawer – had been encouragement enough.

She wondered how many years – if ever – it would be before the monster of awakened longing was subdued and she could return to placid acceptance of a limited life. The journey into love was so effortless and graceful; the journey out such a long and laboured climb.

Insight, overdue but dazzling, opened Jean’s eyes to the truth that when help is accepted, both parties are enriched.

Happiness flowed and was smooth, but reality had rough surfaces and sharp corners.