The Sound in My Bones

Sometimes I still hear it—

that boisterous, throw-your-head-back laugh.
The kind that made his curls bounce
like they had something to say too.
God, it was loud.
Loud in the best way.
The kind of loud that made you laugh
even if you didn’t know why.
He was joy.
Big and uncontainable.

But there were quieter things, too.

Like the way he’d shake his head
when he watched TV with the kitchen light on.
His Tourette’s would slip out
soft but sharp—
like his body was protesting the chaos
he didn’t say out loud.
Flick. Twitch. Stillness.
Flick again.
Trying to stay.
Trying to just be.

I didn’t always talk about it.
Didn’t always ask.
I just sat nearby,
pretending not to notice
so he wouldn’t feel different.

But I noticed.
Of course I did.
Every flick, every shift—
I memorized them without meaning to.

And now I leave the kitchen light off.
Even when I need it.
Even when I’m alone.
Because some part of me still thinks
he might walk in,
toss his curls,
laugh at something dumb on TV,
and flick his head like it was no big deal.

I carry all of it now—
the laugh, the light, the flicker—
tucked deep in my chest.
I carry that sound in my bones.

And on the quiet nights,
I let it rattle me.