The Tiny Laugh

A new baby came to Ria’s house. Small as a loaf of bread. Loud as a whole bus.

The baby could cry — waaah! The baby could sleep — shhh. The baby could wiggle — wiggle wiggle wiggle.

But the baby had never, ever laughed.

Papa tried first. He made his funny fish face. Blub, blub, blub.

The baby stared.

No laugh.

Nani tried next. She sang her softest song. Nini baba, nini…

The baby yawned.

No laugh.

The dog tried too. He wagged his tail so hard his whole bottom wagged with it.

The baby blinked.

No laugh.

Then Ria came and sat down. Ria was the big sister. She was big enough to sit by the baby all by herself, and that is very big.

She put her hands over her face.

“Where is Ria?” she said. “Where did Ria go?”

The baby went very still.

“Peek…” said Ria.

The baby held its breath.

“…a-BOO!”

And out it came — the tiny laugh. A little hiccupy, squeaky, brand-new laugh, the very first one, and it was for Ria. Not for the fish face. Not for the song. Not for the waggy dog.

For Ria.

“Again!” said Papa.

“Again!” said Nani.

Peek-a-BOO! The tiny laugh. Peek-a-BOO! The tiny laugh. Again and again and again, until the baby’s eyes went slow and blinky, and the laughs turned into yawns.

The baby fell asleep holding Ria’s one finger.

“How did you do it?” whispered Papa.

Ria patted the baby, soft as soft.

“Babies just know,” she said, “who their big sister is.”