A Dead Man's Laugh

"It was a somber time; when he died.

He was a good friend to everyone he knew. He had no enemies.

His laugh, oh, his laugh was beautiful. It brought merriment to all those who heard it; and with just a week before Christmas, it’s his laugh that will be the most missed part of the holiday.

He was a fantastic man. A father, brother, son, but he’s gone. No matter what any of us believe, he’s no longer here with us and that hurts.

I loved him very much, my friend, especially his laugh. His unmistakable laugh, never a haughty chortle, it was more often a cheerful chuckle. That’s what I’ll remember most. Not what he looked like, his salt and pepper hair, though mostly salt. Not his laugh-lined face nor his poor choice of fashion or even his poor vocabulary.

It’s his laugh that will remain in my memory.

And what of you all; what shall you remember of him?

Things he gave? Things he took? Things he said? Or didn’t say?

No matter what, it’s his laugh, that merry giggle.

What if later on, years from now, when all is lost in memory but sound? How will any of us remember him then? When our thoughts of his looks fail us; and things he said elude our mind.

I’ll remember the happiest sound he made.

My friend is gone now. I may cry, or I may laugh with him in my memory.

I may run away from thoughts of him, or I may invite them in.

It will be my only vice to witness further life.

For how does one go on in this world without a close friend, such as he was?

I just think, ‘what if he’d gone sooner?’ or ‘what if he’d stayed longer?’

But none of that matters, it’s what’s here and now.

He’s gone now, and we’re here.

He’d want us to live.

He’d want us to love.

He’d want us to laugh.

I want us to laugh.

Losing him isn’t the end of something, no matter what you believe, but the beginning of something new.

‘How can that be?’ you ask.

It’s simple. A happier time despite his absence shall reign. He has infected me, as I hope he did all of you; and I hope you all, as I intend to, go forth and infect others with his laugh.

Oh, his laugh, his beautifully fantastic laugh.

So beyond his environment that you’d think he was mad, delusional. But he was comfortable with himself, as we all should be.

And remember his laugh. "

That was my little part to the eulogy I’d been given the honor of reading. A combination of many people’s thoughts. Following the moment of silence after the lengthy eulogy I gave, everyone rose and made their way out of the garden and to their cars.

I was one of the last to make it out. The funeral workers took him to the hearse. Everyone waited for it to exit the lot. I made my way into the line.

It wasn’t long before we were at the cemetery.

Letting us cross traffic, I waved at the stranger sitting behind the wheel.

We followed our friend around the grounds before settling at his resting place. A beautiful plot if ever there was one. It was noteworthy.

Yet, it was morose. His body would be laid inside the hole in the center of the area we stood around now. The preacher said a few words, but my mind was elsewhere.

More crying, I held back my tears. I focused on his laugh.

It was last Christmas. The last Christmas. The time I got to meet him for the first time. Being a daughter-in-law can be quite strenuous at family events. Especially a holiday, a holiday like Christmas where traditions mean so much. I’d been married to his son for two years. Karl’s father couldn’t even make it to the wedding. He had been in a car accident shortly after I met Karl and in a coma until last October, almost four years.

I suppose I must correct myself. I had met him, but he hadn’t met me until last Christmas. His last Christmas. I’d gone with Karl at least twice a week to visit his father in the hospital. I probably went twice that going on my own much of the time. Not that Karl didn’t care for his father, just that with his work he could barely manage with the weight of the decisions already placed on him. He once told me that he feels as if the less he goes the sooner it will be that his father recovers. It was always Mondays and Fridays. The week’s bookends his father always said to him growing up. He was told to fill the bookshelves with all he could learn. Then work on building more shelves over the weekend.

Such a sweet sentiment.

I was remembering these stories as I got to meet him for the first time last Christmas. The last Christmas.

He was wheelchair bound. Not for any other reason than he needed physical therapy to learn to walk again. Somehow, the accident hadn’t done any major spinal damage, but being in a coma for so long, the muscular atrophy was a lot to have to recoup from.

I’d gotten comfortable with the whole family already. I was just worried that, meeting Karl’s father, he would feel I was not good enough for his wonderful son. I didn’t feel that he was some hard-to-please man, quite the opposite. It was purely irrational. But a part of me told myself these people were far too kind for me. With my history, how dare I find such caring and compassionate people to share my future with.

Karl’s older sister Lucy has three girls. Karl and I can’t get pregnant, part of my history. Part of my guilt. Seeing their father smile at the ten-year-old opening a gift containing a new doll for her collection, seeing her glee that sparked his joy, filled me with equal parts guilt and joy as well. The six-year-old twins were both opening their gifts. Karl’s father turned his chair to see them better. Their faces illuminated with colorful lights and pure delight as a crystal bear for one and a crystal octopus for the other refracted the warm sunlight that filled the room.

Their tradition was Christmas morning in the conservatory. A potted evergreen was their tree they gathered presents under, but the entire room was covered in décor and lights rather than just the tree.

Sitting there, taking pictures for the annual photo album, I paused as I was struck with that sound. He had burst into a beautiful laugh. The family was moving along, for them this was not particularly noteworthy. For me, it was life changing. I looked around at the scene. This perfect familial scene of love and joy. I couldn’t believe this was my life now. Getting to witness the merriment moved me to tears. I had yet to formally meet Karl’s father at this point. We had arrived only about ten minutes before this moment. It wasn’t until after the lunch that Karl’s father approached me and asked to talk in private.

I was terrified. That’s me. I offered to push his chair and he accepted.

“Just tell me where you’d like to go.”

“Back to the conservatory.” I obeyed. We made our way from the dining room, through the kitchen, down the hall, passing a study and the living room, formal family room, and other such extravagantly furnished rooms. The entire house decorated as if from a magazine.

He pointed to a bench against the glass wall. Beyond lay the garden that in just less than a year we’d be gathered to send him off.

“What do you think?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of this place. Quite different from how I grew up, or Karl for that matter. Even more so than you from what he tells me. To be fair, the source of all this was apparently the consequence of my accident. Quite a decent bit of money the family got.” I just looked down. Used to hiding any sort of shame or hurt feelings, I just put on my content face. He saw right through it and slashed off my mask with five words. “I tried it once too.”

I could not repress my emotions now. I knew exactly what he meant, and it sent a shiver down my spine. For the first time in sixty-seven days, I cried.

“I was twenty-three and,”

“You don’t have to tell me.” I quickly interrupted. I sobbed and got myself under control, wiping away the tears. I don’t wear makeup so that wasn’t a concern. Old habit from when I cried a lot growing up. Easier to hide it when there weren’t mascara or eye shadow streaks to tidy afterward.

“I just want you to know that I understand. Karl does too. No one else knows. Not even his mother. I told him when he was fifteen and a friend of his did it. He didn’t understand how someone could be so selfish, leaving everyone else behind like that.” Karl’s father paused and gestured for me to give him a hug. I leaned in and gently hugged him, his frail frame strong on the outside, but brittle, like a cicada shell.

Sitting upright again on the bench, I said, “He never mentioned that. Either part.”

“I’m not entirely surprised. After I’d shared my experience with him, he was still frustrated and didn’t talk to me for quite a while. I feel that his love for you, and learning what you’ve been through, helped him to understand that part of me.”

“Your laugh feels so real and genuine though.” I was shocked that I’d actually come out and said that. Having not had much time to process the sudden shift from the joy filled morning to this serious moment, I just needed to know how he did it.

“That’s because it is.” Seeing my confusion and disbelief, he continued, “My children have given me so much to be grateful for. They bring me so much joy that the darkness can’t compete with the torch I carry with me.”

“Even after,” I hesitated, “the accident?”

“Especially after the accident.” He stared at me. I’d dropped my head, but I could feel him stare. When I finally lifted my head back up, he said, “The moment I woke and my wife was at my side, I was in despair. Learning what had happened, the shape my body was in, how much time had passed, if I could’ve done it then, I would’ve. My torch had been snuffed. My body had woken, but my mind was still in that darkness. Once my kids were there as well, I felt the spark reignite it.”

“I can’t have children.” I said point blank.

“I know.” I didn’t know he knew. This conversation felt like a ‘children will bring you happiness’ sort of speech.

“Then,”

“We all have our own torches that help us. Sometimes they’re dimmed or extinguished altogether. What’s important is having something there that can relight it.”

I considered this. I understood it. It was more or less what my therapist had discussed with me over the years. Hearing it said this way, from him, it made more sense. I started to cry again. The tears ran over my face as if in a marathon. I was surprised when they didn’t stop when I told them to. This feeling wasn’t sadness though, that feeling I knew too well. This feeling was hope.

He let me cry. I sobbed a couple times before looking back up at him and managed a weak smile. Then he laughed.

“Hold your torch high.”