Nothing treads as softly as my mother’s voice.

Even when alive, she spoke in measured,

pastel tones.

They seemed the afterthoughts of my father’s staccato directives,

Like slow, patient ripples, spreading from

the splash of the moment.



Her voice had no echo then, nor does it now.

Absorbed by my lingering soul, her kind words

and quiet wisdom speak to me still.

Yet I never hear myself speak with her sound,

her lilt, her muted color.



It is my father who speaks through me.

Against my will, his echo rings from the canyon of my years,

with haunting truth.

Matching itself, tone for tone.

His moment with mine.



The precious truth of love.

Voice to voice, voice to heart.

One speaking through me.

One speaking to me.

Forever with me.