Life is Good
It is 7:52 p.m. The sky is turning a blackish-blue, a far cry from the yellow paint color I have been imagining for my kitchen. Upstairs, my husband, Eric, is making the plastic Stegosaurus talk and asking our five-year-old son, Asher, to lie down for hair rinsing. I hear my name strewn about like dandelions in a grassy field of puddles, as the splashing water trails the insides of the tub.
Down here in the living room, I am groaning inside like a radio trying to find the proper reception while I stare at the “Life is good” slogan on my pink t-shirt that’s two sizes too small, now that I am 43. I am left in silent awe, as the sun falls over the edge of the world, about the people making a bazillion dollars off of such an ordinary affirmation. Damn those phonies, I think to myself, and who do they think they are anyway? Telling everyone “Life is good.” It is like they knew how stupid the world is, how we would all hop on some “Life is good” bandwagon and decree that finding joy only takes slapping on a bumper sticker.
Life isn’t “good,” it is sticky and muddy and wet. It is full of unexpected deluges and dandelions being crushed thoughtlessly underfoot. It’s full of sunny days holding onto their last final, fading breaths by 8:03 p.m.
And suddenly, there is laughter bouncing down the stairs like a runaway ball. There’s the tiny, toy-like voice of my son, and I begin hanging onto every word, or at least I would if the sound of the computer keys were not beating right there beneath my nose. It doesn’t matter what he is saying exactly; it’s the rosiness of his voice that turns the light a different color.
The sunset is new again, all shiny and pink, and God damn if I don’t think to myself, “Life is good.”