1 0

ou could always recognize my mother’s laugh by the timbre of her delight. So rich, so black, so hers . A laugh that made you stop and turn, made you want in on the joke. You know that feeling. At a crowded restaurant, and from a table on the other side of the room, laughter fragrances the air and floats toward your curiosity. And you have to look. You know pleasure when you hear it and, starving, you want in. I loved making my mother laugh. The sight of her head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut, all of her teeth catching light usually pushed me to try my luck with another joke, another riff, another perfectly timed slant of my eyes. Even when I went too far and got an “alright, now, that’s enough” from her, it felt like a standing ovation. Vollständiger Text

25 Juni