Rivers don't laugh or chuckle, I thought. Rivers belch and complain as they roll over the rocks. Rivers, on occasion, roar with the stresses of life, and sometimes take sorry souls whom they think can't take life anymore.
My brother was such a person. Taken by this exact river. My brother was not, however, a person who gave up on life. He was the kind of person who let out a loud, appreciated laugh at everything that was said. He was the kind of person who could tell one was upset and he would pat their back or give them a hug and let them know it was okay.
He was two years old.