Walking B on one of our go-to routes, a shorter loop, perfect for afternoons like this one, where I’m not sure if it might storm — and you should all know, B can’t handle a storm. She bolts. Brother has been known to have to carry all 55 pounds of her 3 + miles as she shakes uncontrollably .

Anyway, we’re walking our route and came upon D & her son, Z.

I had seen D before, many times. She has a Husky who, when also outside as we walk by, likes to bark at B. B, of course, loves to return the favor.

I, for one, have never been big on Huskey’s. It might have something to do with a high school boyfriend, who was nothing short of obsessed with his beloved Huskey — Sergei. After Sergei destroyed my {designer} flip flops and a Coach bag, I decided I couldn’t stand the dog.

That whole “me or the dog” tactic –  yeah, didn’t work. Obviously. Never does, girls. It never does.

On a completely related, yet unrelated topic, Huskey also is known in this household as a rather traumatic word for Brother #2. See,  he was also a little chunker like me. One early fall Saturday afternoon, Maman took us shopping for back to school jeans.

When we got to the Boys’ section, I’ll never forget her asking: “Execuse me, where can I find the Huskey sizes?”.

Brother #2 and I still laugh over that. So yes, Huskey also tends to equal “fatty” to us.

This afternoon there was no Huskey, nor Huskey jeans, just D. And I have to admit, when I saw her and her son up ahead a couple houses, I thought about bolting. I thought of crossing the street, or turning around or any other number of avoiding combinations I could think of.

Because she was standing out there, with her son, in a wheelchair. Feeding him something that looked really gross and mashed up to me.

I felt all sorts of uncomfortable assault me. I wanted to avoid her … well, the part of me that was afraid. The other part wanted to talk, connect. I forced myself to continue forward.

We stood there talking a good 15 minutes. She officially introduced me to Z, who is for the most part, unable to talk, minus some grunting sounds. She is completely dedicated to him.

Amazed, I tried to imagine what her life must be like. The challenges of knowing your child will never be able to function and live on their own. Right as I started to feel sorry for her, she said:

“Isn’t it just a beautiful day. This is everyday happiness, isn’t it?”

Yes.

This — sons in wheelchairs, hungry children, sick people, homeless animals that tug at my heart — they are all part of the happiness, along with blue skies and bright sunshine, laughter and ice cream and gorgeous sunsets that take your breath away.

It is hard, very hard at times, that’s what this life thing is, but it doesn’t make the experience any less. I believe this is what makes it so heart achingly beautiful — the good, with the bad, the up with the down.

It’s the everything. And in that, there is happiness. I know there are horrific things happening all over our world right this second, and that maybe some people will think I have no place to say this, considering I haven’t lived through what someone might call too terrible or horrible — but we all have our stuff and our dark moments.

And. I like to think, prefer to believe, that happiness … well, it is always there. It’s just if you can see it. It’s what keeps me going — this belief.

That and people like D, who are here showing us the way, helping us to re-member ourselves.