Voice

I remember my father’s voice
Low and slightly accented.
He would speak simply
But deeply
A man of few words.
Because of this, his words usually held weight.
They resonated
Long after they were spoken.
He said some of the most important things that
I needed to hear
At the time.
He told me that I should never just follow a group when I was angry.
He told me about his own sadness when I was in a dark place.
He told me that I was a good parent when I was full of doubt.
He told me he would never see his only grandson grow up
As we cried and held hands over the sleeping six week old.

His voice betrayed him after the stroke.
What used to be well considered words
Came out as a random string of sounds.
They lacked minimal coherence for meaning.
I know it was not what he wanted to say.
These sounds didn’t carry his words anymore.
His words were held captive
Not to touch our ears and minds
As he intended with his thoughtful and minimal words
Or his humour.
It all just tumbled out as sounds
And his message lost in a synapse.
He hit himself as he tried to get the words out.
As if to force them out of his head and mouth.
He was trying so hard to alleviate the distance and space in the room.
White always creates such spaciousness
Especially when it’s sterile.

He learnt to say some words again.
It took effort and time
But worth the wait.
I miss that voice
Those words.