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Good Morning

Two wee girls and two wee boys are in my mind.  I saw the girls one summer afternoon last year as I was sitting at traffic lights.  They were maybe 8 or 9, on opposite sides of the street.  They were wearing summer dresses, and waving to each other across the road.  They had skinny arms and broad smiles.  I looked from one to the other, delighted by their delight, as they hopped impatiently from foot to foot, waiting for the Green Man to appear. At last he did, and one of them skipped across.  They joined hands and ran off together, hair flying. They were so free, so happy.

Raymond Carver wrote a poem called Happiness, about seeing two wee boys in the early morning light - a newspaper boy and his friend, walking up the road side-by-side. They’re not talking, they’re just together.  It’s so early that the light is grey, and the moon is watching.    The poet, standing at the window with his cup of coffee, is caught by the moment.  ‘Happiness’, he writes.  ‘It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.’

I love this poem.  Is it about the boys or the poet?  Their happiness, or his as he watches them?  For me, it’s both.  When I read it, I remember the two girls waving to each other across a busy road.  I remember the jolt of happiness, theirs and mine, as they flitted into my world, and were gone.    

May God bless small girls and small boys this morning. May God bless the happiness of the moment, and the magic of friendship.  Amen.