Happy
The first warm day of spring was, by some fortunate chance, a saturday. Some smiling goddess had blessed us with a whimsical day in early April the weekend before spring break. All the Earth rejoiced with me. I felt like a butterfly in a field full of colorful flowers. I felt like a butterfly in a painting.
I was hanging freshly laundered sheets on the clothesline. Call me old fashioned, but I love the smell of sunshine-dried sheets. They smell of wind and fresh soil and drops of golden sun, and if you're lucky, of impending rain clouds.
It was perfect. The striped sheets billowing like the sails of a fairy's magical gaelleon in the breeze that played fondly with my hair, tickling my neck like a playful lover. Every so often, a trailing corner of damp cloth would caress my warm skin, and the feeling was delicious.
And for a moment, I was happy.
So very many have underestimated the word. It has been abandoned for fancier, lacier, frillier words such as 'estatic' or 'joyful'. When did simple contented happiness lose its lustor?
In that moment, hidden umung the unfurled sails like a child playing hide and seek with an imaginary friend, I was happy. Content with my lot. Nothing could touch me. Not wind not rain nor man nor god could ever take away the simple pleasure of still damp sheets tickling my skin on a warm lazy day in spring. Because i was happy.
This will certify that the above work is completely original Samantha Brower