The Laugh I Can’t Hear Anymore

The record player crackled softly in the corner of the dimly lit room, spinning an old vinyl that was barely loud enough to hear. Cindy sat cross-legged on the floor, her fingers tracing the edges of an old photo album. She paused at a picture of herself as a little girl, no more than five, balanced on her father’s shoes as he guided her in a clumsy waltz around their tiny living room.

“Cindy-baby girl, you’re supposed to let me lead!”

his voice echoed faintly in her memory. His laugh—rich and warm—filled the silence of her mind, and for a fleeting moment, she felt like she was there again, swaying to his off-beat hum of some old tune he couldn’t quite remember the words to.

But then, like always, the sound faded, and all she was left with was the hollow ache of trying to hold on to something that wasn’t really there anymore.

“Cindy?” her mother’s voice pulled her back to the present. She was standing in the doorway, her hands wringing the dishcloth she always carried.

“Yeah?” Cindy quickly shut the album and looked up, forcing a smile.

“Dinner’s ready,” her mother said softly. Her eyes lingered on the album for a moment, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to. She could see the sadness in her face, the same sadness she carried every time someone brought up Dad.

“I’ll be there in a second.”

Her mother nodded and turned away, leaving Cindy alone again with the photo album. She leaned back against the couch and sighed, her fingers tapping absently on the cover.

“Hey, Dad,” she whispered into the quiet. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. More than usual.”

Her voice broke slightly as she continued. “It’s weird, you know? I used to remember so much about you. The way you smelled like sawdust after work, the way your voice sounded when you read me bedtime stories, the way you laughed...” She paused, swallowing hard.

“Your laugh,” she said again, almost to herself. “That’s the one thing I could never forget. It was... perfect. Loud, but not in an annoying way. Big, but never forced. You’d laugh so hard sometimes, you’d snort, and we’d all end up laughing just because you couldn’t stop.” She smiled faintly, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“But now... now even that’s slipping away.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her hands to her face, the weight of the admission finally breaking her. “I don’t want to lose it, Dad. I don’t want to forget.”

She sat there for a long time, the only sound in the room coming from the faint crackle of the record.

The next morning, Cindy’s older brother, Marcus, found her still on the floor, asleep next to the photo album. He crouched down and gently shook her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly. “What are you doing down here?”

Cindy blinked up at him, her eyes red and puffy. “Just... remembering,” she muttered.

Marcus sighed, sitting down next to her. He picked up the album and flipped through it slowly, pausing at a picture of their dad holding Cindy on his shoulders.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “he’d hate to see you like this.”

“I know,” Cindy whispered. “But I feel like I’m losing him all over again. I can’t remember his laugh, Marcus. I’ve tried, but... it’s just gone.”

Marcus was quiet for a moment, then he stood up and walked to the old bookshelf in the corner. He pulled down a dusty shoebox and brought it back to her.

“What’s this?” Cindy asked, sitting up straighter.

“Something I’ve been meaning to show you,” he said, opening the box. Inside were old cassette tapes, each one labeled in their father’s messy handwriting.

“Dad used to record himself working on songs,” Marcus said. “They’re not all great—he wasn’t exactly a singer—but... his laugh is on here. A lot.”

Cindy stared at the tapes, her hands trembling as she picked one up.

“Why didn’t you tell me about these before?”

“I didn’t think you were ready,” Marcus admitted. “But I think you need this now.”

Cindy nodded, tears streaming down her face. Marcus set up an old tape player and pressed play.

At first, there was static, and then—there it was.

Her dad’s laugh.

It filled the room, warm and familiar, just as she remembered. Cindy closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her, clutching the photo album to her chest.

For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was losing him. For the first time, she felt like he was right there with her, guiding her in one last dance.

**Author's Note**

This story was deeply personal to write. It was inspired by my own journey of grappling with the fading memories of my dad, who passed away when I was seven years old. One of the hardest parts about losing him has been realizing that I can no longer remember his voice.

Growing up, we didn’t have cassettes or recordings, so his laugh, his tone, and the way he spoke are gone forever. Writing this story was bittersweet—a way to imagine what it might have been like to rediscover a piece of him. While I’ll never get that closure in real life, creating a hopeful ending for this character felt like giving her—and myself—a small gift.

For anyone who has ever struggled with fading memories of a loved one, I hope this story brings you comfort. And for those who still have the chance, I urge you to capture every laugh, every story, and every voice while you can.