I am forgetting the sound of their voices.
His was rich, sometimes treacly. He spoke slowly, gently, carefully, choosing his words. Towards the end he whispered out his phrases, only able to find a few – ‘kind of you to come’ and ‘good to see you’. ‘Stuff them’ was the last one I heard him uttering, far back, from the reaches of his throat. Hers was sharp, brittle and latterly, rasping. Her younger voice was more resonant. Strident. I hear it sometimes in the voices of my siblings. They way they call their dogs, their children and when they are stressed.
Voices that played such a part; dominating the landscape of my childhood.
She a bitter bride, he a lax husband. Kitchen rows and bedroom squabbles.
I cannot remember happy sounds.
Shall I invent them?
And yet, I am a product of that, their kind of love. The soft and the sharp.
It is enough. And I miss them. Terribly.