By my bed, I keep a little bag of happiness, tied up with a faded, frayed ribbon of palest blue.
It was given to me, many years back, by a special member of our extended family. Her name was Barbara. I am not sure if she made it or if she bought it, in aid of one of the many good causes she supported. It matters not; it is a lovely hand-made gift of home-spun wisdom, which always makes me smile and remember the giver.
So of what does Happiness consist?
Very little, it seems; an eraser, some cents, a marble, a rubber band, a piece of string,
and a kiss,
to remind us that someone always cares about us.
The kiss in the kit bag was originally a Hershey’s Kiss but it disintegrated long ago. ( I didn’t eat it, truly I didn’t.) The little kissing rabbits belonged to my mother, and, before that, to her three maiden great-aunts. They have been loved for generations but not yet been loved quite as much as the Velveteen Rabbit, it would seem.
And that is all there is to it; my little bag of happiness. Simple, isn’t it?