The Age of Laughter

There are seasons in life when people expect you to become quieter. More measured. Less easily undone by laughter.

I know the shape of those expectations. The gradual settling they call maturity.

But I have never been particularly interested in living a life defined by expectation.

I love spending time with children and young adults because with them, I don't have to perform anything. No careful restraint. Just an easy return to something unguarded.

And then I spent two weeks with my twenty-three-year-old niece.

And remembered.

We left Philadelphia just after midday and took the train north to Boston.

By the time we arrived, it was evening. That soft hour when a city begins to glow.

We took a taxi to the North End, not thinking we would need a reservation. We were wrong. The restaurants were full, the streets crowded with families and couples, and the hum of celebration spilled out onto the sidewalks.

We were lucky to find a table.

For several nights leading up to the trip, we had stayed up far too late, laughing in the dark like conspirators. Talking about men, work, and the winding paths our lives had taken. Things felt lighter, not because they were simple, but because we didn't need to sort them out.

That night, we didn't need to say much. We watched instead — a young woman celebrating her birthday, candles glowing briefly before disappearing into applause; couples on first dates, still performing the careful dance of first impressions.

We sat in a comfortable silence that felt as intimate as conversation.

Later, we stepped into the night and wandered the streets, catching a glimpse of the Bunker Hill Monument rising quietly in the distance.

A reminder of history. Of time. Of all the lives that had unfolded here before ours.

We were back at the hotel by 10:30 — early, for us. A small concession to the next day.

Morning came too quickly.

We slept in and nearly missed breakfast, arriving just in time to gather what we could before everything was cleared away. After all those late nights, we had finally slept — only to wake into a small, self-inflicted rush.

From there, we made our way to Long Wharf and boarded the ferry across the harbor.

The air was crisp, the water bright with morning light.

For a few peaceful minutes, we stood side by side, saying nothing again — watching the city from the water, as if trying to take it in all at once before it slipped away.

In Charlestown, we wandered through the Navy Yard and visited the USS Constitution, its wooden hull steady and enduring.

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It was a beautiful day. The kind you don't try to improve.

Eventually, we found ourselves back in the North End, where we had started. Another meal. Another moment to linger.

My brother met us there, arriving from Maine.

Then came the inevitable part: gathering our things, saying goodbye, and heading home.

I dropped them off at the airport and began the drive home alone.

Boston did not let me leave easily.

I got lost — truly lost — for nearly an hour. The roads looped back on themselves, and the GPS offered confident instructions that somehow led nowhere at all.

Eventually, I found my way out.

Nine and a half hours later, I pulled into the driveway just before midnight.

The house was still.

And I missed her.

The way she laughs so easily.

And I laugh too.

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