Jokes

For as long as I can remember I have believed in jokes. I have believed in jokes made by my grandmother as we stood in her kitchen and smeared marshmallow fluff onto graham crackers and cracked cans of grape-flavored soda that were found by a musty pile of folded blankets in the closet off the living room.

I believed in her invitation to smile and that joy was not something that had to be forced onto young lips and eyes.

I believed that the feeling of fear was something created outside of my body. It was a feeling that chased at the back of my legs when I ran down hard wooden stairs and it was a feeling that pressed against me as I made my way up to the old bedrooms of my mother and aunt.

I believed that bravery was reflected in the moments before fleeing.

I believed that fear and joy and authentic skin wrinkling smiles greeted me upon invitation from the people and the places that loved me.

It has been ten years since I have eaten marshmallow fluff or blown the dust from the top of a can of off-brand grape soda or laughed at the jokes of an old woman who has done so much living.