Delight is....

When I think about delight in its simplest form, a whole manner of cliches come to mind - chocolate, romance, a pretty sunset. Who am I kidding? It's a sickening combination.

The sad truth is, my happiness comes from a far differen source, miles apart from the previous three. How many, after all, would admit that it was someone's death that inspired their happiness?

I thought so.

I was fourteen, young, naive and in the midst of examinations. The last thing I wanted was to be at a funeral, especially since the person in the casket had been like a mother to me. I remember watching as they carried the coffin out to the graveyard out back, followed by a number of arrangements - flowers shaped like angels and delicate words I could never say.

Don't worry, the laughing comes later.

Weeks passed and the mourners left one by one. I watched as my mother withered away in the graveyard, watering the flowers morning and night. I half expected the priest to come knocking at our door, praying for the soul of my ghostly mother.

The day inevitably came that I failed my exams and returned to a house of flowers; my mother and aunt sat on the couch with shadowed faces, the dead chrysanthemums of the cemetery in a bucket behind them. When they told me of their plans to create a thing of beauty, I laughed.

Within a year, they were creating angels angels with golden wings, purple framed lettering, a snowman with glass eyes and a top hat.

The reason I associate funeral flowers with happiness is that it wasn't until our front room had no heat and finding the phone became an expedition and I walked with a constant limp due to holly leaves, which I kept finding in my shoes, that I saw my mother laugh. I deeply believe that moments like those are better than any selfish cliche.