The other night,  in Sarasota,  my sister and I laughed under the stars,  just like we often did in our childhood.  That night we were in the Jacuzzi, after a lovely evening out with our spouses, a memorable dinner, and afterward strolling in the warm evening air with ice cream cones, accompanied by the soft babble of tourists and residents.

When we were little, after the lights went out, one of us would whisper, tentatively, “Wanna talk?”

We played games in the dark, like “Chocolate house”.   We’d pretend to play house, but an imaginary house in which everything was made of chocolate – even the roast chicken.  We played “funny names”.  We’d try our best to think of funny sounding names or words, and when one of us thought of one, we’d burst into peels of laughter.  I’m sure Mom and Dad heard us, but only rarely did they come in and sternly tell us to get to sleep.

The only ‘funny name’ we can still remember is “Cheeka Weeka”.  For years, every time one of us mentioned those words, we’d both burst into peels of laughter.  I imagine we got that from Mom, who was quite a laugher.  She’d start, and soon,  unable to stop, the tears would stream down her face.

God we were lucky.