I sit and think about small regrettable things. I have words I should not have spoken, sharp frowns, unkind eyes. My children receive the best of me, but they also are on the other end of my impatience, my fretfulness, my lack of intention. Most of the time they don't even notice when I am grumpy and not fully there. Sometimes, like today, there is something small that has crept inside, something that I have to tiptoe into their room to repair, when they should be already sleeping.
There has been an angry fire inside me, for a few days now.
In the distance I can hear a hundred howling dogs, irate and roused about something or other. Maybe a stranger to the dog clan tried to invade their trash pile.
The truth is that sometimes happiness is boring, obstinate, or old, sometimes the simplest things take too long, sometimes beauty is messy and thoughtless. Tonight I have so many resolves for the day to come. I will open my face, I will play more. I will be more thankful, I will laugh.
In the morning a thousand birds will bring the jungle to life in their own way, singing and chirping and shrieking and rustling. I'm so glad that we get so many mornings. There is one for every day. The darkness of the evening covers our regret, but the morning holds a new song, if we will wake up to hear it.