You know what's really messed up about grief? The way random memories blindside you when you least expect it. Today, it was the sound of someone laughing at the restaurant next door – that full-bodied, slightly unhinged kind of laugh that makes everyone else in the room either join in or question their life choices. And just like that, I was transported back to our dinner table, watching my dad lose his shit over his own joke for the thousandth time.
His favorite story to tell – and subsequently laugh himself into oblivion over – was about this time we got pulled over. After somehow talking our way out of a ticket (a skill I definitely did not inherit), he waited until we were safely down the road before looking over with that glint in his eye: "Did you see that cop? He was so young he still had milk on his lips."
Cue the laugh. Oh god, that laugh. It wasn't just a laugh – it was a whole production. First came the build-up, where he'd start shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle. Then the actual laugh would erupt, this cross between a hyena having an existential crisis and someone who just discovered what laughing is and decided to give it their all. He'd tell that milk-on-the-lips story at every family dinner for months, laughing harder each time, like he was hearing it for the first time all over again.
The best part? He found his own jokes so damn funny that he'd often get to that point where he couldn't even finish telling them, tears streaming down his face, gasping for air like he was doing underwater comedy. And there we'd be, laughing not at the joke, but at him laughing at his own joke – this beautiful, ridiculous feedback loop of joy.
Now, the dinner table has this weird empty space. Like someone turned down the volume on life itself. Sure, we still laugh, we still tell stories, but it's like performing a duet when your partner forgot to show up. The space where his laugh should be feels heavier than his actual presence ever did.
Some grief experts talk about "continuing bonds" with those we've lost. Well, Dad, consider this my way of continuing our bond: I've inherited your terrible jokes and that completely unsubtle laugh. Every time I start cackling at my own bad puns and see people staring, I think, "This one's for you, old man." I'm keeping your embarrassingly loud legacy alive, one inappropriate dinner table outburst at a time.
The truth is, I miss everything about you, Dad. The way you'd snort-laugh mid-bite and almost choke (a real smooth move). The way you'd slap the table when something was really funny, making the glasses jump like they were part of the comedy routine. The way you could turn any mundane family dinner into an impromptu comedy show.
But here's what I've learned: Grief is just love with nowhere to go. So I'm sending that love out into the world in the form of laughter – big, loud, unapologetic laughter that would make you proud. And sometimes, when I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe, I swear I can hear you laughing right along with me.
To everyone else who's lost someone who made their dinner table a little louder, a little funnier, a little more alive – I see you. Keep laughing. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Let's make enough noise for those who can't anymore.
And Dad? I'd like to think you're up there at the pearly gates, telling Saint Peter, "I'd tell you a joke about heaven, but it's way above your head." And then unleashing that ridiculous laugh of yours until even the angels can't help but join in.
Miss you, you magnificent goofball. Keep saving me some of your worst jokes for when I get there.
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Love,
Aleksei and the team at Mourning Glory Club, a registered 501(c)3
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