chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: laughter

found poem: going on…

found poem: the intentions

found poem: Despite

found poem: I used to

found poem: the clouds

found poem: so

found poem: the great

naked…

giggling…

D in barrelWe’d be sitting at the kitchen table, the three of us — my parents, me — eating dinner, talking about our day, whatever it was we talked about, and something would trigger us — a word, a bit of nonsense, something said in seriousness that struck us as absurd. Suddenly my mother and I would be giggling. Helpless to stop, nearly calming then setting each other off again, we’d hold our stomachs and wipe our eyes, try not to look at each other, ride the waves of giggles one after another until we were spent.

My father would settle back and watch the two of us, knowing that, for the moment, any hope of conversation was lost. Mostly, he wouldn’t interfere. But sometimes we might glance over at him and though he was sitting there looking perfectly normal, watching us, one of his eyes would be completely closed without any other disruption to his face, or his tongue would be stuck out, touching the end of his nose, and we’d dissolve into another round of giggles.

At those moments, which happened perhaps a half-dozen times a year, maybe more, the tension and judgments and expectations and disappointments would dispel and my mother and I would be, for a few minutes, girlfriends.
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photo: my funny mother before I knew her

lost laughter…

I listen and try to conjure up the sound of my mother’s laughter, the sound of my father laughing. I can see my father with a big grin, even see him wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, but I cannot hear the sound. I can remember the fits of giggling that would engulf me and my mother, sitting at the table, usually, when some bit of nonsense would consume us, laughing til it hurt, setting one another off again and again.

But I cannot hear the sound.

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