I tried to compare the sound of
laughter to that of squeezed
dogtoys, but something humane
surfaced from the corners of conscious
ness and resuscitated some tv-mem
ory of a poor heart being squeezed-
literally being squeezed-between
two palms.
There's something awkward
about surgery-gloved hands grasp
ing at exposed objects previously
covered, warm, safe. Now, flesh is
a book, words are read that have
n't been, and I imagine a book be
ing held close to the chest, close
to the heart, where it belongs-
covered, warm, safe. But
what about laughter? Obviously not
every utterance is uncomfort
able, dying breath, a weezing.
And thus not every express
ion that shows joy is actual
ly of joy. But warmth is
different, not hesitant-a
book held toward the
chest, its eventual ex
posure proving miraculous
or fatal.
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