When my daughter calls me and asks me out to the ballet or a baseball game or she stops by my apartment unexpectedly with chocolate ice cream, or with nothing, and says, “Can I hang out with you for a while?”
My son calling just to say “Hey Mommy!” then laughing a deep, goofy, doofus laugh before he hangs up.
Clean sheets on the bed and iris and calla lilies in the vase on the dresser.
Dogs loping across the beach, tongues hanging from the side of their mouths.
Rainbows after rain, finally.
The crack of the bat and the cheer of the crowd on a sunny day at the ballpark, and of course an ice-cold beer in a BEAT LA cup.
Bliss is coming home from the North, rounding the bend through the tunnel and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge and the City in the background, the sun sparkling on the buildings, and just a faint trace of wispy, spun-cotton fog stretching its delicate hand out from the ocean, trying to touch the bridge, yet not quite making it.
Bliss is a baby asleep in your arms, smelling of milk, your milk.
Bliss is a deep red, ceramic bowl filled with plump blueberries.
Bliss is the rosemary bush flowering purple and the hummingbird that pauses in the air, hovering near the feeder on the balcony, its iridescent wings seemingly still with such rapid beating.
Bliss is the surprise letter in the mailbox; the familiar yet almost forgotten voice of an old friend on the message machine.
Bliss might be sitting on your front stoop, or pushing the walk button over and over again at the intersection down the way. Bliss may be pinching the loaves of sour dough in the bread aisle at Safeway, or looking for you at the bus stop.
Bliss may be hiding in your heart, waiting for you to wake up.