Three Years

Oct 1

1 min read

The first thing to go was her voice.

You noticed it one evening. You tried to hear her say your name, and it didn't come. Her face came. Her hands came. The voice stayed away.

You didn't tell anyone.

But some voices are not kept in memory. They are kept lower.

When you were born, she held you every afternoon. Your head in her hand. The window open. She sang. Always the same song, always very low, as if it were a secret.

You were too small to remember. It went in anyway.

Then you grew up. She sang less. She talked more. She told you to eat. She told you your coat was too thin. She said brava when you came home, even when you had done nothing. Just for coming home.

That is the voice you are losing now.

Her voice on the stairs is fading. Her voice at the table is fading. The other one is still there, under everything.

You hum it in the dark, and you sleep.

She is still singing.