“I didn’t know your best friend from high school died.”
“Yeah, he fell rock climbing.”
“That’s so sad.”
“I guess. On the bright side, at least he left his mark on this
world. Splat!”
My would-be laughter never has a chance to burst forth. The look on
her face turns my insides to ice. “Why do you do that, hide
your emotions from me with a joke? I’m your wife, you can be
serious with me.”
I want to answer her, tell her what’s bothering me, but it’s
easier to roll over and hide my face in the wall. Not the best course
of action, as evidenced by the smell of brimstone that starts to roll
off her body.
Why does she always do this — search out every little secret
that I keep hidden in my head? Does she think it will do me some good
to retell the story of how my parents gave me my dead brother’s
name? Should I feel like a new man when I talk about how my grandfather
once told me I was the only person to have ever disappointed him?
Can’t she see that every one of these memories is like a little
earthquake riddling my heart with crevices? Doesn’t she realize
that if I didn’t laugh I might drown in tears?
I’d tell her, but every time I try all that comes out of my
mouth is, “Why’d the chicken cross the road?”
This is a story inspired by the lack of humor found
in my life.
