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Paco and I rounded the southern tip of Lake Bde Maka Ska a few days ago on the pedestrian path. I don’t know what he was thinking about but I was thinking about future griefs to come and how I dread going through any of them, because why wouldn’t I? Grief is hard and it hurts and it swamps, but it will come and I won’t be able to escape it.

Then a tiny inner voice said Happiness is the same way, and I examined that thought. Happiness floods me in tiny unexpected moments: pouring the hot water over the grounds, laughing at a text from my brother, watching my girl walk across a field holding flowers. It perches on my shoulders like a tiny invisible bird. I recognize it when it’s there, and how beautiful a feeling it is, but I never expect it to stay. And it doesn’t.

Generations, by Naomi Shihab Nye

At the end of an unseasonably warm day
New Year’s Eve 2017
I stood in my kitchen holding
one wooden spoon.

My mom was watching TV
in the living room
eating apples, crackers, and cheese.
My grandson slept in a stroller
in a quiet back room.
I was related to both people,
ages ninety and one.
They were peaceful.
And that was it.
The most beautiful moment
of my life.

Click here for more information about poet Naomi Shihab Nye. I’m unable to figure out where this poem was first published.

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