11/24/08: voices, and other thoughts
Eighteen months.
Physical memory is an odd and subtle thing. Only fragments, flecks, remain, like shards of silver paint left behind when a broken mirror has been cleared away. Yet occasionally something will trigger a visceral response. You would think I’d be past the skin hunger by now…and mostly, usually, I am. But every now and then-like last night-I stretch out unthinkingly with one arm under the pillow and flop the other one over toward the middle. Only to encounter: cold sheet. Pillow. Empty space. Betrayed by a habit that eighteen months have not yet been able to erase.
Teddy bears help, some. A pet would help, some. But neither of those can really replace that warm, strong, callused hand that slid down my side before coming to rest in the hollow of my back. Or the mischievous feet that chased mine all about the bottom of the bed, trying to capture them. Or that incredibly soft, fine hair that curled against the back of his collar and slipped through my fingers like so much silk. Or sweet gentle descents into sleep, holding hands, smiling.
I miss his voice even more. I knew it over the phone long before I ever met him in person; we worked via e-mail and phone for six months before that first book debuted and I came up to Milwaukee for the release. I’m not entirely certain any more how much I actually remember of his voice, and how much I’m reconstructing out of what I think I remember. I know I went frantically through my archives, looking for any voicemail he’d left that I might not have deleted-but I’ve always been good about keeping my inbox cleared out, and there was nothing there. Before I finally cancelled his cell phone, I would call it just to hear his voice mail greeting. So now I try to recall his voice, things he’d say, but only occasional words still come through that I can be sure of…and it hurts to lose that, so much, so much.
I don’t remember my dad’s voice at all. When he was overseas in the Navy, he used to record tapes and send them home. I can only imagine what those tapes meant for my mom and brothers and sisters; but by the time I was old enough that I would now remember anything of the sort, he had retired. Dad’s been gone for nearly 31 years now. I don’t know what happened to the tapes, whether anyone in the family took them and tried or will try to transcribe them onto some sort of modern media, whether they were just tossed away once he was home and before anyone would know we’d lose him so early in his life. He wasn’t quite 52 when he died. I was almost 13.
There’s something that NPR is trying to do this week in conjunction with StoryCorps, called “National Day of Listening.” They’re encouraging everyone to take an hour to listen to the people in their lives, get their stories recorded in some fashion so the voices and the lives aren’t lost. It’s been making me think of all the voices I’ve lost already, all the stories that will never again be told. I’ve been considering asking the people in my life to call my work phone and leave me a voicemail. The system processes them as sound files that I can save.
I’ve lost too much already. I don’t want to lose any more voices.
Tell me a story...