My grandfather drew men with big noses and made remarks I did not understand but which caused my grandmother to glare and shush at him. He taught us not to go down the hill behind the house because there were crocodiles there. (I don't think it ever occurred to anyone that just telling the truth, that there might be viper nests there, would have been just as scary.) My only clear memory of his face shows him laughing.
My father woke me up on weekend mornings for pancakes and cartoons on the telly. The rest of the time we made references to the things we had watched, and laughed. He was sometimes inappropriate and sometimes hurtful, but rarely intentionally. Still, he laughed. He was different with his brother; kind and unkind. Always smiling.
My mother calls me on the phone and laughs at the way I talk about my day and then talks about her day and while sometimes it's hard for her to find the good parts, she always tries. Her new husband exchanges looks with me sometimes, both of us shaking our heads and chuckling, a joke we are sharing and finding comfort in because we don't have to explain to one another what's so funny.
My best friend and I, we have our own crocodiles, ten thousand cartoon references, we are storytellers, we are fifty year old brothers, we don't have to look at each other to know we're both laughing.
We don't know how to talk, do we, without dissecting every topic, poking about until we locate the friggin funny bone.