When I was a kid, my father turned to me in church, held out his hand, and said “May the piss of the Lord be with you.”
It was supposed to be “peace of the Lord,” of course, but he got it wrong.
We both started giggling. Church is the worst place to get a fit of the giggles, of course, because every time they come anew they break the formality again and start more giggles.
My mother was appalled. She got up and started walking home in her pumps and fur jacket. We tried to convince her to get into the car as we drove past her, but she was humiliated and not going to be seen with us, at least not now.
Giggling by yourself is just a passing thing, one moment of play and silliness.
Sharing a giggle, though, is sharing a delight that is amplified with every new squeal of delight. It is sharing a moment that becomes a touchstone, triggering a new peal of giggles with just the catch of an eye when a reminder occurs.
Solitary giggles go cold and dry up, vanishing into the past, but shared giggles can bind people forever.
It has been a long, long time since I have shared a giggle. And I miss it.