The Q life Grief Journey

There are moments when the house feels too still, when even the hum of the refrigerator or the rustle of wind outside feels loud against the quiet. It’s in those moments that I remember Quinten’s laughter most clearly.

His laugh was never the kind that demanded attention. It wasn’t loud or showy. It was warm, low, and genuine, like the sound of contentment itself. It had a way of filling a room without overwhelming it, of making everyone nearby feel at ease. When Quinten laughed, you couldn’t help but smile. It reminded you that life, even with all its sharp edges, still held soft places to land.

I think about how his laughter showed up at unexpected times, after a long day, in the middle of a small mistake, or when things didn’t go quite right. He had this gift for finding humor in imperfection, for easing tension just by being himself.

These days, I hear echoes of that laughter in small moments: when the dogs chase each other in the yard, when a story reminds us of something silly he once said, or when we catch ourselves smiling at something we know he would have found funny.

It’s not the same, of course. Nothing could ever be. But those quiet ripples of laughter still move through this place, gentle reminders that joy doesn’t disappear when someone leaves. It lingers, tucked into the walls, the routines, and the hearts of those who loved him.

And maybe that’s the gift he left us, the ability to find light even in loss, and to remember that laughter, once shared, never really fades away.