Happiness, if it does exist, lies in retrospect. Because when the actual incident transpires, you feel nothing, perhaps a slight excitement or joy.
Days, months, years later, they acquire a distinct tint, a certain colour, a different feel. And you realise you were happy, even in a seemingly mundane act.
Maybe it’s your mind playing tricks but you swear you felt safe and loved in a cocoon, perhaps as you fell asleep among loved ones or spent a day chatting with them or just a whole day saying nothing, just watching TV with them or reading as they knit in the corner. That’s it, all the ingredients for happiness, lying out there for the taking.