He Knows How to Make Her Laugh
The couch in my parents' living room is a popular spot--my father likes to take naps there, and when he's at work, so does my mother. From her perch on the couch, she can rest and keep an eye out the window for the mail-woman.
Though she spends quite a bit of time in this spot, she seldom misses an opportunity to comment on my father's time there. When we run errands on the weekends, she always asks as we pull into the driveway, "What do you think Dad's doing?"
To this, she answers herself, "Probably sleeping," even if we can hear the lawn mower roaring in the back yard.
When we do find him resting on the couch, she beams at me and raises her chin, proudly showing off that she still knows her husband.
On one particular occasion, my mother and I return from the grocery store and find my father laying on the couch and the radio turned to oldies. The music is loud enough to drown out the noise we make traveling through the living room to the kitchen, as well as the ruckus of putting groceries away.
My mother is very careful to be quiet; as much as she pokes fun at my father, she wants him to get enough sleep.
As we organize canned goods and disperse fruits and vegetables to their proper places, my mother's ears perk up and she grabs my arm.
"Listen," she chuckles.
I pause, trying to hear above the radio and the soft snoring of my father in the other room.
"What?" I ask.
Suddenly, the gurgling intake of breath from my father drowns out the radio. My mother buries her mouth in her hands as she tries to hold in her laughter.
"Dad?" I question again, still unsure what she thinks is so funny.
A second later, he snores even louder. My mother thinks this is so hilarious that she sits down at the kitchen table. Worried she will wake him, she doesn't vocalize her laughter, but continues giggling into her hands.
As the next loud snore temporarily blocks the radio, my mother puts her forehead on the edge of the table. Her shoulders convulse as she laughs uncontrollably while simultaneously trying not to.
Though she spends quite a bit of time in this spot, she seldom misses an opportunity to comment on my father's time there. When we run errands on the weekends, she always asks as we pull into the driveway, "What do you think Dad's doing?"
To this, she answers herself, "Probably sleeping," even if we can hear the lawn mower roaring in the back yard.
When we do find him resting on the couch, she beams at me and raises her chin, proudly showing off that she still knows her husband.
On one particular occasion, my mother and I return from the grocery store and find my father laying on the couch and the radio turned to oldies. The music is loud enough to drown out the noise we make traveling through the living room to the kitchen, as well as the ruckus of putting groceries away.
My mother is very careful to be quiet; as much as she pokes fun at my father, she wants him to get enough sleep.
As we organize canned goods and disperse fruits and vegetables to their proper places, my mother's ears perk up and she grabs my arm.
"Listen," she chuckles.
I pause, trying to hear above the radio and the soft snoring of my father in the other room.
"What?" I ask.
Suddenly, the gurgling intake of breath from my father drowns out the radio. My mother buries her mouth in her hands as she tries to hold in her laughter.
"Dad?" I question again, still unsure what she thinks is so funny.
A second later, he snores even louder. My mother thinks this is so hilarious that she sits down at the kitchen table. Worried she will wake him, she doesn't vocalize her laughter, but continues giggling into her hands.
As the next loud snore temporarily blocks the radio, my mother puts her forehead on the edge of the table. Her shoulders convulse as she laughs uncontrollably while simultaneously trying not to.
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