#gdss12

When Happiness Shows Up, appiness Shows Up, Offer it a Comfortable Seat

   I claimed this bookcase for my own about a year ago, when I was finally brave enough and bored enough to climb it, and when I didn’t have to worry about falling anymore. From here, I can see the world, or most of what matters of it; the soft, sapphire ocean of carpet and its sorrel, leather islands that used to be so squishy and inviting; the golden vines that stalk dusky midnight wallpaper to meet the majestic ceiling; the chandelier, a flurry of crystalline raindrops painting a white sun on dark walls. It was always my favourite place – the library in the centre of the city, where I spent so many Autumns shutting out the cold in new, warm, comforting pages. There were a lot of Springs cramming for exams, too, and some Summers spent aimless and lonely, looking for a new story for company. Now, in the Winter, couples drag the snow inside on sturdy boots and try to clutch at slippy plastic book covers with mittens or numb, unyielding fingers. The couple closest stands back-to-back in the aisle marked ‘Mystery’, each with a different book, unspeaking but so near to each other all the same. One partner’s scarf is softly touching the long hood of the other. I wonder what the fabrics must feel like together.

 My love climbs the bookcase too and sits beside me, careful not to fall through or disturb anything. She’s a new edition to the bookcase, but a welcome one. I look over and smile, and notice that somebody’s hung a little sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling lamp. She notices me noticing, waggles her eyebrows at me, and when we kiss the join between us is transparent. We watch the couple browse for books together for a while, after that, before she nudges me that she’s bored and takes a dive that should’ve been scary. I follow a little more slowly. I think maybe the novelty’s worn off by now.

 We drift on down the street. Some people hurry by to get home from the snow; some are puffing along with huge shopping bags and panic or relief on their faces; some people are painfully slow, trying to crunch through safely, scared of slipping. We’re not moving at all, now, just standing in a quiet pocket, away from the crowds. Some carol singers are stood on a little pavilion, singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’, and my girlfriend is cheerily mouthing the lyrics. I turn back towards the street, looking down it until I see a familiar sign, a familiar set of Christmas lights, and when I find it I elbow her and point towards a little coffee shop. I used to go there all the time, I try to tell her in my eyes, my mouth, the tilt of my head. She gets the idea, I think, and together we stride through the door and pick out the only empty table.

  We sit in front of two half-empty mugs of chai tea and pretend that they are ours, and that we can still drink them. Around the bar sit sprinklings of fairy-lights like rainbow grains of sugar, tinsel like some moonlit fox’s tail. In the corner there’s an emerald tree studded with baubles; I can’t quite make out if the tree is real or not but a phantom of a smell comes to me anyway, all fresh green needles and Northern Lights. This isn’t our first date – not by a long shot – but it is our first Christmas together, and by now I’m sure I’d be red in the face if I had any red to give, because this will be our first Christmas at home together, which is so exciting that I can hardly stand it. She tries to pick up the tea absent-mindedly but falls into gales of silent laughter when her hands slip through. I chortle along with her and I clasp her hands in mine, instead.

 The couple from the bookstore wander in for coffee, red cheeked and smiling and holding hands, bags full of books, so when we give up our seats for them we try to hold hands all the way, and even if we can’t feel it we’re smiling just as hard.

 We head back to our bookcase home. The clock in the corner reads 7:15pm. It’s dark, now, but the Christmas tree lights are still flickering through their colours. They’ve settled on red and yellow twinkles for the time being. Through her I can see the lights dancing, the warm orange making a flame inside of her. I wonder if she tastes like mulled wine? I kiss her to find out.

Aubade

  The eve, the night, it doesn’t want to leave but

We’ll fight it away with early morning carols,

The smell of everything cooking at once,

Intentions to laugh the loudest,

Bubbles in our glasses trying to lift the shadows.

Our presents sit as guardians of the day,

Wrapped tightly, ready to see the light.

Crackers pop and snap at the heals of the stars.

Do you think the waning dark would wear a party hat,

If we dared it loud enough?

We wake and all is new, if we decide to make it so;