I flip through an old copy of The New Yorker until you call. Anxious. Taking in what I can — the cartoons, the poems, the first two pages of a seven page feature. You ask me what my parents do (because we are working from the inside out and always will be).
Hadness: happiness that we know is temporal and therefore registers more like sadness, the heart-pinching intuition that what you currently “have” will soon be something you “had.”