That giggle was all gold, God it sparkled so.
The giggle warmed our souls as well as any hearth warms the skin.
The giggle announced itself as if it were a million petals opening in warm sunlight.
Ava's giggle softened the room, as if her gentle sound could make the lamplight more golden and the fires burn warmer.
Her giggle was a stone bouncing across a glossy lake, creating ripples of mirth where there had been none.
The giggle rolled about the room like a child's spinning top, vibrant and heart warming as it moved around the people in its chaotic way. It came in fits and bursts - loud to soft to nothing at all and back to loud again. It was as if there was an invisible feather at the little boy's nape brushing softly; he squirmed and raised his shoulders to hide the little neck he had. "Only a child can laugh so," Jethro thought, " but why shouldn't we all laugh so freely?"
The giggle was an auditory hug. It wended its way through the wintry air enveloping even strangers in its tickling embrace. Even the most stoic of the commuters on that grey train platform stifled grins. Beneath a sky that only promised icy rain and with a stressful day ahead that threatened to stretched into infinity before nightfall, that childish eruption of pure glee was the gift they didn't know they needed.
The noise that burst forth was like a cross between a snort and a drunken laugh, Olivia never knowing when to breathe between the giggles. I can't say she had the most musical of laughters, yet it was always the medicine the rest of us needed to lift us on even the darkest of days. For in that sound was the smallest fragment of her spirit; I swear it soaked in through our ears and gave us the edge we needed to keep fighting for liberty.
Memories are often invoked by a fragrance, for me it is the smell of potatoes being fried in old oil - then I am at the seaside, shingle underfoot, fishing boats glistening in the afternoon sun. Yet for me the strongest memory, the one that feels most like being sunk into one of those alternative reality machines, is the giggle from baby Hans. It is more delicate than wind-chimes and just as chaotic, just as melodic. In those moments I have Clarissa once more, newborn, fresh, an unknown future before her. Then I dwell there, mind sinking into my own self-made delusion.