How could I have known I would need to remember your laughter,

the way it ricocheted—a boomerang flung 
from your throat, stilling the breathless air.

How you were luminous in it. Your smile. Your hair 
tossed back, flaming. Everyone around you aglow.

How I wanted to live in it those times it ignited us 
into giggles, doubling us over aching and unmoored

for precious minutes from our twin scars—
the thorned secrets our tongues learned too well

to carry. It is impossible to imagine you gone, 
dear one, your laugh lost to some silence I can’t breach,

from which you will not return.

^{for Fay Botham (May 31, 1968–January 10, 2021)}

Copyright © 2022 by Lauren K. Alleyne. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 6, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“My dear friend and fellow Gemini, Fay Botham, lost her battle with depression in 2021. I wrote this poem, trying to reconcile that reality with one of my favorite things about her: her joyful, full-throated laughter. We laughed in and through tears, joy, pain, and random hilarity. We snorted. We were ridiculously loud about it, which made us laugh even more. I miss her presence in this world. This poem is dedicated to her memory.”
—Lauren K. Alleyne