And I Laughed

I laughed. The kind of laugh that comes out so far and fast that you wish you could run and catch it, stuffing it in your mouth before settling on a quiet regret, instead of what you’ve done-instead of a laugh that carried in it the wreckage of a human being, whose childish body was no more developed than the mind to deal with this news of decay and circumstance. It was a laugh that I’ve wished for the majority of my life had never happened. Even though, I was a child. Even though, I suddenly realized that my father was not playing an elaborate hoax on me, as soon as it began to choke itself out of me. It turned into a howl before the last short “hah” could be completed, but there are still times I torment myself over the syllable I uttered upon news of my uncle’s death.
                I still remember where I sat when I began to weep- a wrought iron chair in my grandmother’s garden, with my uncle’s deathbed such a short distance away. Paint had chipped to show that had been colored with the decades- black in the 90’s, a royal blue in the 80’s, yellow in the 70’s-in 2001, it was a stately white, and it felt like a throne as my father knelt before me, the tears in his eyes no less shocking than dew on the poppies in the early morning, as I struggled to comprehend what he meant when he said that Uncle Bobby was with the angels-that his last words were to tell me he was sorry he wasn’t able to see me grow up.
                My thoughts developed cubic and warped-snatches of wounds he’d nursed, with following trips to McDonald’s, interspersed with vague hospital snapshots of him lying languished on his bed, smiling wanly after chemotherapy treatments with my family huddled around. I’d been too scared to hug him in instances like that; afraid of whatever disease had transformed my uncle, the carpenter, who I’d never seen in a weak moment, to this frail mockery that emulated him, halfheartedly. His hair, still, swooped the way of decades past, his voice was similar, though cracked in a way I’d never heard. Most of the confusion to me lay in looking at his eyes. They were constantly covered in the misty film like that of my father’s when he told me that his brother had passed. They were sunken, most often closed, though not as firmly as they are now.

                

Author's Note

Not finished er just wanted critique on what I've got so far I suppose

Reviews

[Dan Bradley]

Not that the rest of the writing after it isn't good, but the first paragraph could stand alone as a fantastic piece of prose poetry. So, my question from there is, is this going to be a short story? A long poem? I just liked that surprise ending of the first paragraph so much. It calls to mind an instance many of us know.... wondering about our own guttural reactions ("Was that as funny as i was loud?"). The rest is good writing, just need that catch.

Reminds me of a time a friend (about ten years ago, she was 19) told me she was pregnant: My non-thinking next statement to her was, "Is that good or bad?" And the look in her face went from wanting to be happy to the first time she'd had to think about the choice.

[nerdyrant]

Many stories rolled into one... ma best part, the beginning.