Happiness

Sometimes it's a hot pizza, fresh from the oven. Or a beautiful, sunny day spent with friends. A warm bath. Hugging someone you care about. Laughter shared with friends. Coming home. Getting off the ski lift at the top of the mountain on a powder-perfect day. Dancing in the kitchen. A crisp, tart apple.

A dog that wags its tail when it sees you. Buttered toast. An old pair of jeans that fit like nothing else you own. A book you can't put down. The previews before the feature movie. A cat in your lap. Root beer popsicles. Coming out of Penn Station onto 7th Avenue. Sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm. Sleeping late. Getting up early. Pinot noir. Stacking firewood. Fresh salad. Getting snowed in. Pinky-red tulips.

Slippers. Flannel sheets. Dinner out. Dinner in. A freshly mowed lawn. Cranberry-orange relish. Smooth stones. Finding $20 in your coat pocket. Dawn. Singing to the radio when you're alone in your car. Fresh linens. A good sharp kitchen knife. Wearing socks in bed. Chickadees. Coleman Valley Road. Cleaning stalls. Hot chocolate.

Longer days. Shorter nights. A freshly mopped kitchen floor. The smell of baking bread. Fancy, imported soap. Fine old furniture. Red foxes. Gin and tonic with lime.

Two eggs, over easy. Warm socks. Leftover birthday cake.