Small Joys

by Elvin James Mensah

Now, back in the garden, we heard some rustling in the branches over the fence; we both got up. Muddy stood next to me holding the bits of cheese. He put his hands over mine and poured the cheese into my palms; his were starting to tremble in excitement as he let go. “Is the robin still there?” I asked. “Yeah, pal,” he said, “robin’s still chillin’ up there. Give it time, mate. And if it don’t come down, it’s all right, we can try again tomorrow. It’s a gradual process. Just don’t bail on me like Finn did.” We smiled at each other. I looked up, and I could see the little robin too; I wasn’t confident that it would fly down because it had gone so quiet. All my life I’d known happiness to be this evasive thing, something I’d had to pounce on and hold still even as it evaporated through my fingers. These moments of disappointment, of sadness, of emptiness, had permeated my life, and I’d felt resigned to them. Life, with all its facets, terrified me. Happiness was scary because the loss of it was scary. Loneliness was scary also, but so was losing that familiarity it gave me, that awful sense of home I’d made in it. I’d always felt like a weed growing among flowers, competing for light and water: too neglected to be picked, but somehow too weak to be a threat to anything. But, in the end, these flowers had given me something, they’d arranged themselves around me, and made me feel as if I were one of their own. And now I could see the potential for longevity in these spells of ...