Laughter Really Is Carbonated Holiness
All the girls in the family do it –
throw back our heads in laughter exposing
our necks, our throats. Helpless with it.
It must be hereditary. Even our little one does it,
sensing the alchemy. When we laugh till we cry
– the thin line the Bard trod between comic/tragic –
we merge, come close as one.
The bodies that encase us dissolving
like salt or sugar in water with a quick stir.
Today, after hours of foot stomping Nos!
she curls up in my arms and begs for a story
that will make us laugh till we hiccup.
Smiling, I say such moments arise
like magic and cannot be called up at will.
Nancy, whose three sons died in separate accidents,
has adopted Lamott’s quote as her motto.
How can she ever laugh? Then again, how can she not?
Wisdom – that sorry consolation – bubbling up
from sorrow, thin-skinned, refracting light into prisms.
I’m forever blowing bubbles, my father used to sing to me
long ago, pretty bubbles in the air.