My Mother’s laugh is sweet and high, a rollercoaster at a fair, unpredictable. People stop to watch her laugh. Pull out their phones, press record. They want more. They crave it. Everyone wants to be enveloped in her glowing light. To be swept up into the dustpan that is her humour. She laughs at things like babies in snow suits and mispronunciations of everyday words.
My Mother’s laugh goes like this:
My Father’s laugh is invisible then rough. He chokes on his laughter. It goes back down deep into his lungs and comes out a fit of mucus. People ask him if he’s okay. If they can get him a drink of water. It makes everyone near uncomfortable as his shaved head rocks back and forth. He laughs at things like people falling down the stairs and the embarrassment of others.
My Father’s laugh goes like this:
I am the product of my parent’s long-gone bond. They appear through me in ways I do not wish and others I embrace, through the mirror, through my voice, and through disease. My Mother the sugar, my father the red dye and I, the stick of the lollipop that held them together.
Which is why my laugh goes like this:
January Paige
January Paige is a Georgian Bay Métis writer, artist and lover whose poetry and short memoir work often explores the themes of time, memory, womanhood and the idea of being in collaboration with her younger self. Her debut collection titled Then, When, Once that features the Indigenous method of circular storytelling will be available in the Fall of 2024. Updates about her creative endeavors can be found under her instagram handle, @januarypaige.
Cover Photo By: Bretcht Deboosere
Published on: August 23, 2020
https://unsplash.com/photos/red-and-white-lollipop-on-white-stick-pIi_cX_yTf4