“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.” Maya Angelou
Sarah stands in the kitchen with Tom. He’s wrapping the left-over chicken with Saran Wrap. His mood is gray—grayer than gray—close to black.
“You know what they call that in England?”
She nods toward the box in his hand. “Film.”
He pulls out another foot and tears it off. “Really?”
“Absolutely. So, instead of that being a length of Saran Wrap you’re using, it’s a length of film, funny huh?”
“Well, not funny hah, hah, but an interesting tidbit of information.”
Making someone laugh isn’t as easy as it seems. She especially wants to make Tom laugh. A week ago, his uninsured house took a hit by Hurricane Andrew. The screen on the lanai was shredded. The roof over the master bedroom went. He lost a favorite palm and two orange trees. His also uninsured sailboat’s scattered mast lay across a dock.
Laughter is a healing force. Everyone knows it. She decides to try again. Her eyes roam around the kitchen, landing on her book bag. Ah, hah! An idea.
She leans back against the counter. “Did I tell you what happened to me after class one night?”
He forces a grin. He obviously knows she’s attempting to cheer him up. “No, what?” he says.
“Well, I couldn’t find my car after class and the lot was full and this guy and woman in a car saw me looking and started shadowing me. Of course, that didn’t help my concentration at all. I circle the lot twice. Finally, the guy gets bored and passes me. ‘Having a blonde moment?’ he calls out the window. ‘I heard that,’ I yell back.”
Sarah folds her arms over her chest and pouts. “You laughed harder after I spent eight hours basting our Turkey in vanilla.”
Tom roars and pulls her close.