“Hank, if you don’t stop, you’ll have to go outside.”

I purse my lips together.

“I mean it.”

I look at the old guy to my left. I mean OLD, like 88. I don’t know what my Aunt Jo objects to, exactly, but maybe she doesn’t get the jokes or maybe she really does think we are too old — or at least Hank is too old — to be silly.

It’s 10 below out there. I’m not going to be the cause of his exile.

Hank looks at me sideways like a conspiratorial kid about to launch a spit-wad at the teacher, and I look down at my ice cream. In front of us is a plate of Christmas cookies.

“He’d live on cookies if I let him,” she says.

Hank and I start laughing.

Hank glances at Jo, stands up, turns around, opens the sliding glass door and goes out to the patio without a word. He’s probably out there giggling.


Hank and Jo, 50th Wedding Anniversary some 20 Years Ago

8 thoughts on “Giggle

  1. I had a friend in high school who’s “trademark” was her giggle. It drove me nuts! I think she thought it was ultra-feminine, cute and demure — unlike me who laughed heartily, my “giggle” was more like a blast of laughter! πŸ˜€

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