I still hear his adorable laugh in the quiet moments… and some days, that’s what gets me through.
It’s strange how something as small and fleeting as a sound can hold so much weight. His laugh wasn’t particularly loud, and it wasn’t the kind you’d hear across a room—but it had a warmth to it, a kind of gentle sparkle that made everything around him feel lighter. It would bubble up at the most unexpected times—when he found joy in the simplest things, like a badly told joke or the way a dog wagged its tail. That laugh became part of the background of my life, something I never thought would be missing.
Now, in the stillness of early mornings or the hush that comes just before sleep, I hear it. Not in a haunting way—more like an echo, a reminder. Sometimes it stops me in my tracks. Other times, it wraps around me like a blanket. Grief is a strange companion. It doesn’t ask permission. It arrives in waves, often when I least expect it, carried in something as ordinary as a cup of coffee, a song on the radio, or the way sunlight hits the wall.
There are days I struggle to move forward. The world feels dimmer, quieter, and heavier without him in it. But then, there’s that laugh—a memory, a flash—and for a moment, I smile. I remember who he was, how he made others feel, and how lucky I was to have known him at all. That memory doesn’t erase the pain, but it softens the edges.
People talk about “moving on,” as if grief is a destination. But I’ve learned that it’s more like a landscape—unchanging in some places, and different every day in others. You don’t get over it. You carry it. And in the carrying, sometimes you find pieces of joy again. For me, it’s his laugh. That little sound that once filled a room now fills the silence. And I hold onto it with everything I have.
So, yes—some days, it’s the sound of his laugh that gets me through. It reminds me that love leaves echoes. And sometimes, those echoes are enough to keep going.
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