“Laughter is the closest distance between two people.”
Victor Borge
There are certain days that start with a kind of cosmic nudge, as if the universe itself has leaned in to whisper, “Brace yourself.”
You feel it in the air—an odd mix of anticipation and dread, like the final stretch before a storm, when everything is still, and you’re bracing for whatever comes next. It’s the kind of day where you know you’ll laugh, maybe even until you cry, but there’s something else waiting in the wings, something you’re not quite ready to face. And so, you go anyway, armed with a bottle of wine and a smile, hoping that laughter—that loyal old friend—will be enough to see everyone through.
And that’s exactly how I felt when I arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house.
The pretense was clear from the start. Officially, everyone was here to welcome me on my visit. But really, this was all for Pablo, for his wife, for all of us to gather close around him and, just for an afternoon, to let things feel a little lighter than they were. It was that strange, beautiful dance families do when words feel flimsy, when the hard truths have already been spoken, and all we want is a reason to be close—to create space for something more.
Their backyard was just as I remembered—overgrown in places, with half-wilted flowers bravely pushing through the earth, a patchwork of memories embedded in the cracked brick walkway. The asado crackled on the grill, its smoke curling up in thin tendrils, mingling with our voices, the smell of charred meat filling the air like a comforting promise. My aunt was bustling between the kitchen and the patio, making song requests and occasionally calling for help, though she didn’t really need any.
And there was Pablo, in his favorite Batman shirt, his arms anchored by tattoos of Spider-Man on one side and the Flash on the other. His hair, still patchy and stubbornly growing back after the surgery and treatments, framed his face with a mix of tenderness and defiance—a reminder of everything he’d endured and everything yet to come. He smiled faintly, taking in the circus we were putting on just for him, humoring us by letting us play our part.
The dogs, bless them, seemed to sense the seriousness in the air and took it upon themselves to break it, launching into their usual antics—darting in wild circles, barking madly at nothing. They seemed determined to set the tone for the day, and somehow, they succeeded. My aunt, apron strings flapping, shooed the dogs from the food with a chorus of stern “No’s” as they circled her feet—only to sneak them scraps under the table when no one was looking.
Between the dogs, the smell of grilling meat, and my own attempts to decipher the rapid-fire Spanish buzzing around me, the day found its own rhythm. There were the usual jokes and jabs, the harmless family jests that come out without thinking. Stories slipped between Spanish and the occasional ‘Spanglish’ (mostly from me), with the kind of ease only a family can have—one that knows each other’s languages, both spoken and unspoken. I laughed along, occasionally stumbling over a phrase that got tangled in translation. And every time I’d trip over a word or miss the punchline of a joke, Pablo would smile, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief.
It was nothing remarkable, really—just people gathered around a fire, sharing food, spilling drinks—the air thick with the smell of grilled tomatoes and sizzling steak. Yet, in those ordinary moments, there was something that felt almost like a miracle. For all its simplicity, the afternoon felt like it was holding its breath—as if the sun lingered just a bit longer for Pablo.
There were moments when Pablo’s energy waned, when he’d retreat into himself, eyes distant, hands folded in his lap. And in those times, the rest of us carried on, keeping up the stories and silliness, letting laughter and lightness fill the air as if to hold the shadows back. But through it all, Javier stayed close, reaching over now and then to hold his brother’s hand or gently rub his back—a steady presence, a quiet reassurance that Pablo wasn’t facing any of this alone.
As the afternoon wore on, laughter became its own kind of language, a way for us to say what we couldn’t put into words. We all knew why we were there, knew what was looming over us, but laughter offered a kind of reprieve—a way to reach across the invisible line between now and everything waiting ahead. Each chuckle, each ridiculous story or joke, was like a thread connecting us, holding us up, making everything feel just a little lighter.
It didn’t matter that we’d heard these stories a thousand times, or that I was catching maybe 80 percent of what was being said. What mattered was the feeling—the sense that we were all clinging to each other, making the most of this sunlit day in the backyard. The dogs still ran in chaotic loops, barking at invisible threats and kicking up dust as they went. My uncle refilled everyone’s wine glasses with the gusto of someone warding off bad spirits, while my mom spun stories from her youth that grew more absurd with each retelling.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, Pablo laughed—a real, genuine laugh that cut through the noise, making us all pause for a second. It wasn’t loud, not the hearty laugh we remembered from his healthier days, but it was there, unmistakable, like the soft glow of a candle in a dark room. And in that moment, the mood shifted. We weren’t just laughing for him anymore; we were laughing with him, sharing in that small, fragile thread of connection.
In that backyard, surrounded by clinking glasses, dog hair, the mess of food, family, and words half-understood, I realized that laughter was the closest thing we had to magic. It couldn’t fix anything, couldn’t change the reality hanging in the air. But it gave us a way to hold onto each other—a reminder that, no matter what was ahead, we had this: a warm day, a messy meal, a few good laughs, and a fragile, beautiful moment that was entirely ours.
As we cleaned up and hugged each other goodbye, I looked at Pablo and saw the weariness in his eyes, but also something else—a hint of warmth, maybe, a quiet resilience just beyond the surface. I held onto that, just as I held onto the sound of his laugh, echoing softly in the fading light. It wasn’t a solution, but it was enough—enough to keep us close, to remind us that we weren’t alone, and that even in the hardest times, laughter would find a way to bring us back to each other.
On that day, it was all we really needed.
