Of all the powers I can confidently claim that I possess (aside from baking addictive lemon loaves with lemon curd, cooking comforting soups and stews, writing in journals, and finding magic out of the ordinary), I love that I have the power to make you laugh. I could be telling you something trivial or narrating a movie sequence (with matching hand gestures) and you would look at me like I was the most amusing person you’ve ever met, and laugh. Your laugh–making you laugh, is a potent drug on its own. It emboldens me to do things and I can’t pinpoint who is the magician here anymore–you or me–for I have never felt this kind of pull with invisible strings from anyone else but you.
The last time I made you laugh without meaning to, I could feel the blush about to tint my face and give me away. I wanted to hide, and so I did. How could I reconcile that I was grieving at that moment, and at the same time, so incandescently happy to behold you, finally, after so many years? I wanted to tell you so many things, but fear and the pressure to be “proper” kicked their way in. I went home that night thinking I lost you maybe forever as I realized belatedly that what I yearned for was finally in front of me, and I let that moment slip away.
Hindsight is 20/20, they say. I know now that given a chance, I don’t want to pretend or hide behind “propriety” anymore. Stop shuffling and lay all our cards down. Because navigating the intricacies of life and love together with you would be an exciting adventure and a wish fulfilled. Making you happy would be happiness itself.
And, oh! I really just want to make you laugh again.