My half-sister and I walked into ASU’s impressive hall. My half-brother had a violin recital. My mother followed us like a mother hen. A few people dotted the chairs and a deep silence nearly swallowed us.
We sat down in our seats with stern instructions from mom to be serious as if I, an adult, and my half-sister, a kid, needed to be told how to act in public. The recital would begin in less than thirty minutes. I looked at the domed ceiling and wondered how long this recital would last, resisting the urge to check the time. The hall seemed ridiculously large and overstated for such a simple kid’s recital. Only a few people sat in the chairs, each respecting the others space. These were all family members who had come to give support to their own, and my half-sister and I came reluctantly. I thought things would be normal.
But suddenly it came, sliding from my gut into my throat and like a feather, tickled. My sister saw my expression. She struggled, too. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, but the harder I tried to act serious the more difficult it was to keep that belly laugh from exploding.
At first, I snorted. My half-sister sputtered. That giggle came and she giggled. In the midst of this overdone recital in the middle of the ASU campus my half-sister and I fought and lost the war against the belly laugh.
It was one of those rare family moments without guile.
Describe your laughing moment. (Inspired from “Like Therapy, Only Cheaper.”)