Small Gladness

There was a restaurant in Chicago
we loved— in Chinatown— called Three 
Happiness. We used to joke that we'd be
happy even with one, or two. This year,
for the third or fourth or fifth time, 
I didn't make the list. Short list, 
long list, whatever kind of list I was 
competing for. But thankfully, of late, 
people have been spelling my first 
name correctly, instead of slipping in 
an "o" or forgetting the "u." The woman 
who owns the yarn store that she's packing 
up to go into real retirement this time, 
remembered what kinds of color skeins I 
used to buy. I picked up sock yarns 
called "Meadow" and "Midas Touch," 
grateful I could still imagine finishing 
a small project I knew would demand my full 
attention. Two weeks ago my good friend  
passed away in another country after a surgery  
he didn't recover from. Another friend told me 
she saw my eldest daughter, who hasn't spoken 
to me in almost five years, at his wake; I 
was grateful for the report that she looked well, 
though I will admit sometimes I don't know 
what that means anymore. I saw some pictures 
someone had taken— now her hair is long, 
cascading curls like in pre-Raphaelite 
paintings. I am still seized by an impossible 
sadness whenever I think of her; I suppose 
it will never pass. But yes, I am grateful 
she is alive in the world. Today and all 
the rest of the week, it will be rainy 
and cloudy. There is a flood watch too, 
though the weekend promises to be clearer.