You will remember the ice cream store, rising where you did not expect it. You were stabbing the air with your umbrella and cursing, you looked up and in one breath moved into your tongue. Joy is more than a pause. It is the day swelling like a balloon, like the hundred hot air balloons you saw by the race track: cars stalled on the highway—no police anywhere—
and all that silence rising.
Joy can be made out of cloth and heated with gas. It can ascend from our hands and halt us in our shoes. We can have too few mouths to hold it—we can be lost in the middle of the day, by the highway, in the heat.
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