Pet Peeve

I remember the sound first. Terry’s laugh had this bright, ringing quality, like someone tapping a glass to call the room to attention. When I read “Pet Peeve” to him, that laugh arrived before I even reached the last line. It surprised me every time, how quickly joy could move.

The poem had shown up on my feed without warning, clever and a little sly, as if it had tiptoed in wearing a grin. I followed it back to the author’s site, curious, and suddenly we were standing in a small treasure room. One poem led to another. Then another. Before long, Terry and I were feasting on wordplay as if we had been starving for it.

We bought the book. Three hundred sixty‑six poems, enough to feed our souls, to carry us through a year. At first, we read them fast. We laughed before we fully understood why we were laughing. The delight came first, like sunlight slipping through a window before you notice the warmth.

But something shifted over time. We slowed down. We let the poems linger. We let the quiet parts speak. I would read them aloud to Terry, not as a ritual or anything grand, just a small shared moment at the end of a day. A bit of laughter. A bit of surprise. The kind of comfort that doesn’t need to announce itself.

Those moments felt light then. Easy. Ordinary in the best way.

Now, when I return to those poems, the lightness is still there, but it carries a new shape. Memory folds itself into the corners. Absence sits nearby, but it doesn’t press down. Instead, it feels like a continuation, as if the laughter simply changed rooms and I’m still close enough to hear it.

Reading them now feels like stepping into a familiar season. The air is the same, but I notice more. The small details. The quiet humor. The way a single line can open a window.

That’s what Days Like These has become for me. Not just a book, but a place where humor and memory meet and sit together for a while. A place where I can return, breathe, and feel something bright rise up again.

A place where the laughter still echoes.