Jubilation Station

Excuse me, have you seen my joy anywhere? I misplaced it on a Sunday, I believe. Or possibly years ago beside a vending machine while fumbling for exact change and adulthood simultaneously. It was small enough to lose easily: warm as a library lamp, slightly sticky from apple juice or sweet tea, prone to wandering. If found, please return to Jubilation Station, platform two and a half, between the woman selling carnations from a paper bucket and the boy attempting to teach a pigeon tax evasion. At Jubilation Station, the clocks run on unreliable sentiment. The ticket booth accepts: three kind words, one unreasonable hope, or a button rescued from the bottom of a winter coat. No exact fare required. A woman in enormous green rain boots feeds blueberries to sparrows. Someone else plays accordion badly but with tremendous sincerity. Even the pigeons walk with the confidence of minor aristocrats. And at dusk the entire station smells faintly of cinnamon and engine smoke, something lovely just being removed from the oven. You laugh, but stranger occupations exist. Some people become dentists Some become weather forecasters We become so occupied with being employable that we forget how to be astonished. when was the last time you climbed a staircase simply because it spiraled beautifully? I do not mean to sound foolish the world remains the world terrible things continue occurring with bureaucratic punctuality. But still someone chalks stars onto sidewalks while someone else is placing googly eyes onto parking meters for no reason except that existence occasionally benefits from absurd supervision. Perhaps joy is just the little conductor punching holes through our gloom one ticket at a time, whistling terribly, ushering us aboard anyway. “All passengers welcome.” Even the weary ones. Especially the weary ones.