It is still strange to laugh.

It doesn’t take great effort anymore but it still feels somehow empty – even if I find something truly hysterical.

Geez, I’m crying right now just thinking of the times I have laughed in the past year. I’m not sure why. Maybe because at first it was always few and far between and then the guilt set in afterwards. Maybe because I can still laugh and he can’t.

I’m surrounded by his pictures – in absolutely every one of them he is smiling. He had such a way of looking at the camera. I see these pictures and it is as if he is really looking at me. Staring into that lens and having his essence captured for eternity. He laughed. At a lot of things.

The reason that I am writing about this today is that I had a dinner party this past weekend. It was the first time really, that I have cooked a meal in the past year. I’ve had a couple of gatherings but always ordered food. I just could never get myself to cook anything. It hurt too much. It reminded me of the dinners we had when he was alive. The parties. It reminded me of the preparation – he was always game for anything and loved when I cooked. I remember how he would come into the kitchen while I was throwing this spice and that spice into a dish and kiss me and watch me. That gaze. That gaze said so much.

I think this is why I haven’t cooked for a year. I miss that gaze. That love. I miss him being in the kitchen with me.

But I laughed that night. I laughed at an especially lewd joke from a friend. I joined in on the joke. I haven’t laughed that hard for over a year.

I cooked and I laughed. All in one night.

No, not the road to becoming healed as I believe this wound will never heal until I die. But the gash and missing part can be filled with cooking and laughter – something for the grief to attach itself to for a while.

He would have loved the food.

And the lewd joke.

especially the joke.

and especially because I was laughing.

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