He He He
Reclining in a black vibrating chair, my feet marinate in hot, sudsy water.
Bowing before me, she reaches down, cradles my drippy tootsie #1, and brings it to a towel on her quad.
She takes a gray speckled pumice stone to my calloused, jagged little heel and then to the ticklish, tender arch—the Central Valley of my foot—when I attempt to muffle my giggle.
And then all at once, I hear it. I’m blindsided, flash back to years before when our Capone Foursome took a spontaneous, happy trip to Happy Nails: Joey’s first—and as far as I know, his only—pedicure, when he could not contain his chortle.
Not one bit. And for me, it was bliss.
And now, I hear his he-he-he and then my own—in unison—our collective giggle.
I can see his sweet, surprised, vulnerable face at the failure of his restraint.
Missing laughing with him is one of the ongoing, countless, must-bear, unbearable gut punches.
Joey would have turned thirty-nine today.
It’s been twenty-nine months, five days, and twenty-two minutes since Joey left us.
On his birthday, I imagine Someone Beautiful washing his feet on a soft, puffy cloud, triggering the sweetest, giggly peace, blessing all heaven and earth with the glorious echo.
