Most of the laughter we heard when
growing up did not come from the grownups
around us -- who seemed perpetually
but from the canned laughter rising
and falling from the small, dusty speakers
of bulky television sets -- sharp, tinny laughter
you could hear from the next room,
even if you had somehow missed the joke.
Even Saturday morning cartoons,
that most sacred of childhood rituals,
had a laugh track with which to instruct us,
not unlike the voices at church, hesitant
at first, then growing robust as their numbers
swelled and converged, demonstrating
to us when to sing out, if not precisely how.
Say what you will, but there's something
strangely reassuring in knowing
that all of that laughter from ages past --
the low, persistent titter, the chortle
and guffaw, the outright snort -- is there,
waiting patiently to be opened again,
in times of war and uncertainty,
when grief has once again shrouded us
in its oily rags, following us like an unremittent
beggar -- times not so unlike our own.
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