Laughter

Your eyes glint in the darkness, glossy lips parting as you whisper simple nothings.

I was a kid then, too lost in my own head to understand how much that moment would come to mean to me.

Your jokes were so childish,

and yet, as you held a stuffed rabbit up to my flashlight, making his shadow dance across your ceiling,

it was as if I was laughing for the first time.

I couldn't breathe when I rolled across your bedspread, hiccuping with giggles as tears streaked my face, wrapping you in a fierce, desperate hug.

I don't think I'll laugh that hard again.

It was not that your joke was particularly funny.

I suppose the tears were born of relief more than comedy.

Relief that I could still smile after all that had happened.

After the tears I never let you see.

The ones that scar my cheeks even now.

Thank you.

I scrawl here what I am too ashamed to tell you in person-

you saved me when I could not save myself.