There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt. — Erma Bombeck, American humorist and author
The sadness can drift in like a fog from an inner sea of melancholia, and it doesn’t leave, whether I’m alone or alone in a crowd. If I am not alone, but sitting on an old blue leather sofa in somebody’s living room, and an uncle, whose mind at 70 is sharp as a razor, who’s sitting on a matching loveseat at my right, cracks a joke, I laugh.
I forget about the fog and let out a burst of sound, my face is a mirror of the Cheshire grin on the face of the uncle, and for a moment, I am in that moment.
Because I can laugh, like everyone.
It is a terrible thing not to be able to laugh. And not everyone can.
They want to, but they can’t. Something in them stops them from ever going near the edge, something never allows them to fall over into the abyss where laughter resides.
Whenever I catch myself laughing, making the noise that sounds like a foghorn over the sea of silence, I know everything’s ok.
To laugh is to be whole in body and soul.