Fall 1990 • Vol. XII No. 4 Poetry |

Happiness

I can remember only once feeling perfectly happy. I was eighteen, a freshman at college. It was October, and I was sitting on the lawn behind my dormitory, leaning against a tree, reading a book. It must have been Sunday. Leaves covered the grass, though the oaks and maples were still full of color, and the sky was that bright and absolute blue you see in photographs of peaceful country scenes. The musty broken smell of autumn floated on the air, that scent like a taste, like the idea of change. People walked past on their way to the library, others slept in the sun, or read their books. Certainly I had enough to worry about. I'd made no friends, was not in love, didn't like my classes. But I felt just then at ease, and then, lazily, quite gradually, completely happy—as if that afternoon might continue indefinitely, and lead seamlessly into everything that was going to be possible for me, which I would one day call my life. No matter what I thought about it, this would happen, and

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Lies

By Lawrence Raab

I can remember only once feeling perfectly happy. I was eighteen, a freshman at college. It was October, and I was sitting on the lawn behind my dormitory, leaning against […]

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