I found happiness hidden inside a discarded box I pulled out of a trash can on the corner of 26th and Main.
Someone must have tossed it there with a casual flick of the wrist as they made their way to the train station.
Happiness wasn’t at all what I’d expected. It was mottled, scratched, and dented; fashioned out of bits of wood, old watch parts, and scraps of aluminum and tin; and the whole thing was held together with electrical tape and string.
I had no idea how to use it, and I almost threw it back in again, but then how many times had I already done that, I asked.
I’ve been carrying it in my pocket and a few times every day I take it out and look at it. No instruction manual. No touch screen. No money back guarantee. Just a small engraving on the bottom written in block letters as if labeled by a child.
“Look around,” it says. Sometimes that’s precisely what I do.