Why do you laugh?

My memories are a mess of interconnected thoughts and unclear edges. I can hardly ever recall the absolute actions taken, specific words spoken, or raw details of events. The fuzziness of my memory is both frustrating and breathtaking. When I look back at New Year's in China, I remember the feelings of warmth and family. When I look back at Disneyland, I'm met with wonder and childishness. Sandy Hook brings up hatred and angry solitude. But when I wish to remember specifically what I ate, or the name of a person I just met, I have to voraciously rummage through the ends of my brain, turning corners to find that precise memory. I have a memory built on emotions. 

Maybe this is why I have deep respect for those who can spark humor at an instance. I'm jealous of their ability to be memorable while everything else is lost with time. Humor has the ability to conjure a multitude of powerful emotions, all synergistically helping to ingrain a moment as a memory. Humorous people stick out as ones we remember because they paint a positive tint on initially dry and ordinary moments. I can never remember the specific joke told or the timely sarcastic comment made, but I do remember the overarching mood of the environment: the light feeling of ease, and the warmth of being surrounded by laughter. 

Humor has powers in both the present and the past. In the present, it ties the environment together and pushes it towards a cheerful light. It helps release the uneasiness and tension, replacing it with warmth and comfort. I've lost count of the number of times where timely humor helped save drowning situation. In times where tension threatens to engulf a location, humor helps the uptight banter survive a careful dance between negativity and cheerfulness

Looking to past memories, humor acts as a paintbrush, overwriting the ugliest of recollections with a pleasant color. Through the usage of humor, my negative qualities become my strongest weapon; my tragically awkward and lonely middle school life becomes a laughable, distinctive contrast to just far I've come. A man's realization that he's an accidental birth can become "a goofy reservation mixed drink"  of "whiskey sperm" and "vodka egg" (Alexie 27): a story to engage laughter and smiles. 

A man's existence is largely comprised of a collection of memories. Some may be tragic, tear-jerking or heart-wrenching, while others are on the positive side of the spectrum. Many people are stuck in the past, wallowing in past memories and allowing themselves to drown in yearning and in wishing. Perhaps humor can be the medicine to help them, to help me, move on. I can indulge in humor to oil the rough edges of memory, soften them in a lighter color, and even make them easier to digest.