If a younger me could look at the woman I am today, I think she would want to ask, “When did you get so serious?”
I was funny as a child. I was known for reenacting movies to my friends, often exaggerating dramatic poses to the point of absurdity. Teasing, being silly, playfulness–my days were filled with those. As I got older, my elaborate stories and performances turned into wisecracks made in class and riddles I invented to challenge my peers. I laughed a lot growing up.
Somewhere along the way, I dropped my sense of humor like a thing that slipped from my hand as I was wading deeper into the ocean while bracing myself for the impact of the wave. It floated for a while, still in view. I could have picked it up and clung to it, reprimanding myself for ever losing a thing so valuable. Even when it sunk underneath the surface, slowly, slowly, I could have dived in and suffered the salty sting to my eyes as my hands reached for it. But I never did, choosing instead to set my sights on the horizon, always waiting for that next wave.
One day, after many suns faded into the end of Earth, did I begin to search for that thing that invoked much laughter in me. Alas, the sea is a majestic being; it takes back all things lost to where it once was born. And so, I looked at my reflection in the water and no longer saw a person that created laughter. Only then did I truly realize the value of good humor.
I miss it these days.