I am ticklish, Dear Reader. I only tell you that because you’re all the way over there, and I’m all the way over here. If you lived in my town, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.
My sister knows that I’m ticklish. Unfortunately, she lives over here, too.
So when I bent over recently and stretched to reach a book on a shelf, exposing the small of my back to the room, my sister tickled me. Right there. I straightened up, jumped into the air, and screamed with uncontrollable laughter.
You can see where this is going, right, Dear Reader?
Grace saw. She saw the whole thing, from the flitting fingers to the shivering squeals.
Guess what, Dear Reader.
Grace was amused. She wondered if she could produce the squeal and the laughter. She tried. She was successful.
She’s got the knack. She does it just like Aunt Amanda showed her, and she gets me every time.
Now, every chance she gets, Grace sneaks up on me and tickles me. I pretend that I don’t hear her coming, whispering ticka ticka ticka. I don’t have to pretend that it makes me laugh.
It makes her laugh, too. If that’s all it takes for me to hear that precious sound, I’ll let her tickle me forever.
Ticka, ticka, ticka!
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