Happiness. It was not the usual subject of stories Helena thought. Which was a bit of a shame because it was hard to come by. Most people only ever had a few moments of it in their entire lives. So why shouldn't they be able to pick up a book or go see a movie that gave them the illusion of it if only for a little while?

She supposed it wasn't an easy subject to write about. Honestly, if you had to write something about a person who was perfectly happy with their lives, how much could you tell? What could you possibly say to keep an audience interested?

Helena pondered these questions while lazily enjoying the sun in the garden. She had cleared the rocks from the hard packed dirt so she could use the rocking chair without difficulties. She loved this time of day. The afternoon sun always had the exact right temperature. Warm but not too hot.

She wondered what being happy would look like in a painting or a sculpture. It seemed to Helena that music was the only form of art that regularly succeeded in communicating the feeling. It was the melody that did it. She had heard some horrible lyrics with upbeat melodies that made them sound happy even if they weren't.

But then life was like that too. So many people pretending to be upbeat when beneath the surface they felt awful. She wondered if she could describe to others what happiness meant to her. If someone asked, what would she say? Was there a way to describe it without mentioning the daily horrors that made it stand out so clear when she was happy?

She got up and went into town for a stroll and some ice cream. Walking along the floating bridge happiness was the ability to walk in public and to be seen as one who belonged there. She drifted into a shop and happiness appeared as she dawdled while trying to choose between two products. No one keeping an eye on her. No shop girl appeared beside her trying to tidy up products that weren't messy to begin with.

Happiness, she concluded, was a sense of belonging. With that in mind, Helena went to the register. She greeted the woman sitting there in her native tongue. It felt so nice to use it in public without getting dirty looks from the people around her.

The teller took her money then counted out the change in colonial language. Helena accepted the change, thanked the woman in native and left the shop feeling a bit numb. She knew what had happened. To the ears of the islanders she spoke with an accent.