You have to seize them, the precious few moments that you get to be mad. Like a period at the end of a run-on sentence in a giant paragraph of happy, the slightest, mildest affront may be your only chance to huff – your only opportunity to release the troll that lurks under the bridge of your heart and quietly seethes that things have worked out so fabulously for you. Yet even as you stew on whatever inconsequential thing it is, and work to manufacture your indignation and weave the spell that will blacken your heart, you feel it slipping from you. Your child giggles, or your wife sends a text, or you simply remember who you are and what you do. And like a will-o’-the-wisp, it is gone. And you smile, and laugh at yourself. You had almost remembered what it was like to be angry.