My mother splashed tea onto her hand as she throttled her body down into a crouch. She was silenced by the convulsion of her lungs. Her lips pressed tight to keep from spewing the recent gulp. I assumed it was tepid for she was not wincing in a pain of a burn. Her eyes were squinted shut and the heat of her laughter rose to her cheeks. She drove one hand to the floor, and with the soft thud of fingers and clinks of rings pressed themselves against the red-toned, chair leg scratched wood. A sweet, wind of airs swept into her as she pulled her laughing into her throat, up from the bottom of her lungs. Groups of her black, wiry hair broke free from the bun, flowing like liquid coffee, out onto her nose. Placing the tea clumsily on the counter just above her head, her other hand slid down the handle, and clung to the surface's ledge. Sitting now, she slowly places her palms over her eyes. She swallowed loudly and then spurt out a cough-y breath of giggles. Her tremendous fit raged tears in her eyes as her cheer engulfed her completely.