The Echo of His Laugh: A Reflection for World Laughter Day

Some people have a laugh that fills the whole room. Bob had that kind of laugh. It started deep in his chest, rolled up like thunder, and spilled out with such joy that you couldn’t help but laugh along — even if you didn’t know what was funny. It wasn’t just the sound of it; it was the soul behind it. On this World Laughter Day, I find myself aching for that sound, missing the one who loved to laugh and the one whose laugh I loved more than any other.

It’s strange how laughter and grief can live in the same heart  — how one memory can make you smile with warmth, then cry with longing. When someone you love dies, it’s not just their presence you miss; it’s their energy, their quirks, their voice, their laugh  —  especially their laugh.

Grief has a way of dulling the world’s brightness. But laughter — his laughter — reminds me that I once lived a life filled with light. We laughed over silly things  —  inside jokes, ridiculous movies (that he'd watch over and over); shared glances that needed no words. And on the harder days, it was his laughter that pulled me back from the edges. He made the heavy things feel a little lighter.

I know the world moves forward with holidays and celebrations and reminders to “embrace joy.” And today, I want to honor that. I want to honor him — the man who didn’t just make me laugh, but taught me how important laughter was. Even now, I can still hear the echo of his joy in the quiet corners of my life. I carry it with me. I always will.

So today, even in the absence of the one who laughed the loudest, I choose to smile — to laugh when it rises, to remember that grief is not a measure of despair, but a reflection of deep, enduring love. And, that love… it never really leaves.

He had the best laugh I’ve ever heard, and I had the honor of calling him mine.

Happy Laughter Day, my love.

I miss your sound, but I’ll keep spreading the joy you lived so well.