( with thanks to Andrew Lloyd Weber, Steven Sondheim,
and to the memory of my father )
The days slip away
hour by hour, minute by minute, second by second.
The longer passed… the easier to remember
the scents, the sounds;
except for voices…
I can’t recall my father’s voice.
I can recognise voices I haven’t heard in just as long
but to just recall his in my mind’s ear… I can’t.
Events, conversations, stories, visual memories seem
sharp
even from a childhood long gone;
some more vague, embellished or diminished when reminiscing…
but not his voice.
The details are all there
the arguments, the trips, the late-night discussions;
our frustrations and successes, our desires and our dreams.
I remember them all
the advice, and admonishments
the battles neither won;
and yet his words are there…
but still no voice.
Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 6 February 2015