When you laugh for so long and so rapidly you sound like a hummingbird’s heart mixed with a squeaker; half a cackle thrown in there. It never gets old, even after the fiftieth time. You must have strong abdominal muscles. That is some serious stomach-crunching going on. Surprising, since I’ve seen your attempt at press ups. But laughing: you’re a bee, hanging above the pollen by its wings, dancing. The buzz you have is the moment before popcorn starts popping; you’re life bursting, in little bites, thrown in odd shapes and funny faces.
Let’s talk about the faces. You have a million of them and while you may not recognise it, I know that you’re part cartoon: Fred Flintstone’s sloppy grin, the mania of a Tazmanian devil and Tweety’s shy canary eyes reeling people in. The beak too. You’re just a bird that doesn’t stop singing. Honestly, don’t you stop talking? Never? Good.
In that prickle of first sleep, as your eyes burn with the effort to stay open and your body is a giant vase of sand- a sliding neon rainbow, bottled by you, on the edge of a theme park- trickling down, further down, and into me…you’ll say nonsense, talk about climbing space ladders or “where am I?” I’ve learned it’s one half of your mind racing the other, to the morning.
Are you the reason they no longer put sharp things in soft packages? Or have you grown that way so you could fight out of yourself, when needed? You have need sometimes but… You’re no hammer, no screwdriver, no caterwauling chainsaw. You don’t have the steel streak to bite into a tree. If you were anything, it would be a super-strength stapler: to pin the note to it, find the free-wheeling cat or press growing thoughts into the bark.