Happiness should be found in the simplest of places. Yesterday I went to town twice to the large sunday market in Tenancingo called a tianguis to buy supplies for the week. The first time I traveled by bike. It is pleasing to combine exercise with purpose. On the return my legs felt leaden as I lackadaisically peddled home. It seemed I had lost my strength and will. Perhaps it was one of those weak moments brought on by too little sleep and too much seasonal fat. The second time I took a taxi and returned by bus. I was sitting on the bus waiting for it to fill up passing the time with my head nestled in my hand like a ripe melon, watching the odd flow of people go by. It's always the same backdrop on this corner. The dark small pasteleria, the newstand, both their awnings baked in grime. The grubby "in and out" brick pattern, one layer in and one out, painted so many times that the edges of the brick were rounded. The lady who sells alegria always knitting and watching, sending her son on each bus just before takeoff with a basket of goods. The people that pass however seem to be different each time. They reek of humanity crowded jilting swaying jiggling. 
I felt meloncholy for some reason. A couple mounted the bus with their little daughter.  By this time there were no seats remaining so they stood. The bus left its crowded dock and began to inch into the current of traffic. For some reason the couple captured my attention. Their clothes were a little ragged. The father's pants worn to a shine were black with gray stripes and his zipper distorted. The mother had on a black sweater unthreading at the cuffs. Her hair was pulled up haphazardly onto tghe top of her head. The parents smiled and talked in a lively manner, and I thought, like heroes in the seaweed. The little girl bore a jacket color rosa mexicana but soiled on the raised creases. She had a smile from ear to ear and a new array of adult teeth filled her up grin. like a string of oversized chiclets.  I thought to myself that this girl is too happy to be normal. Isn't that the way a meloncholy mind works, liberated, and focused. Believe it or not I wondered if she might be a bit retarded. The bus hobbled along and some people exited making room for the family. The father sat over there and the mother over here,, then Mom called the girl,,, ven mi amor (come my love) and she bounced over and sat on mom's lap. At once the girl began to talk softly to herself or perhaps someone else completely immersed in her own fantasy. My spirit lifted and meloncholy fell away like a snake's old skin.