An erudite friend told me yesterday that expecting life to be fair is a fool's errand. That fairness is malleable, defined in terms of the wants of the transitory present. Fickle. He used the word.

He found grueling victory in a recent deep regret I'd shared over coffee. Two men in a busy coffee shop, the woman nearby working very hard to hide her eavesdropping. How carefully she'd used her eyes on me. How averted her gaze when I left.

Foam hearts turned onions in their consumption.

Happiness, he said, is one's own journey. Truth to principles, discipline in actions, exploration in choices. Told a story about self-awareness and its impact on how he shapes his son. Who he wants his son to remember. The words in that coming eulogy.

It's best found alone, I'm beginning to see. Lately, it's in movement. Sweat. But also in remembrance. Contemplation. Study. Admiration.

I was true. Confused, overwhelmed, but true.

Regret no longer shadows impossible nuclear fire and beautiful happenstance. Gratitude, like a flood, comes.

So, come.