I walked into the room, not sure if he was there.
It didn’t take long to find out.
I’d never before seen a person round a corner like that.
Like he was flying.
And yet his feet kept touching the ground.
It was the kind of abandon you find in children.
And in beloved dogs, too.
I don’t mean to call him a dog or a child, though;
I just mean to say that he ran to me with the same kind of
I’M-SO-GLAD-YOU’RE-HERE! attitude you’d see in either of them.
If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging, is what I mean.
(I’m glad he doesn’t, though)
I started laughing, then.
I wasn’t laughing because anything was funny, though.
It was laughter born of pure joy.
That kind of laughter doesn’t come as easy, I think.
Not when the morning dawns, looking like a long walk until bedtime.
Not when your body is exhausted from the amount of time you’ve spent lunging and pulsing and crunching and doing the kinds of things we do to make up for a mostly sedentary lifestyle.
And not when, in the past, you’ve laughed with your family over the way your life has become like a reality show, but worse, because you can’t turn the darn thing off.
But this laughter was an altogether different and golden thing.
And so it was.
He’d been flying and I was laughing and we were both in this one tiny spot, comparatively, when I felt it.
Like I was here.
I laughed for a long time, too.
As long as I needed to, I guess.
He was smiling and I was laughing and the world didn’t look much different through any window, I imagine, but it looked entirely different from my eyes.