Poof

I often worry that I will forget the sound of my Dad’s voice. 

The voice of reason, playfulness, authority, sarcasm and wisdom.  The voice that told such amazing stories and sometimes sang.  The voice that seemed to say just what was expected, and needed, in as few words as possible. 

My Dad’s voice was mildly accented as he had a slight problem with “u’s” and “w’s”, so August was always ‘Avgust’ and Hawaii ‘Havaii’.  We loved making fun of him for that.  So silly, us kids.  It was booming and almost commanding, the kind that could lead a cavalry into battle, completely incapable of a whisper.  So embarrassing, to us kids.  He loved to sing and when we’d worry or obsess about something (usually me) he’d trot out “Que Sera Sera” and somehow we would feel better.  So hopeful, us kids (especially me).  Best though, was my annual birthday call where his voice would sing me Happy Birthday.  Always on my Voicemail and after he finished his little tune, he’d leave a little sarcastically toned sentence about how I was ‘too busy to talk to your own father’.  Little did he know I didn’t pick up on purpose: I saw the name display, didn’t answer and waited for this great message so I could play it back anytime I wanted, or at least for as long as the voicemail saved it.  Never told him that. So dumb, me kid.  Now, of course, it’s all gone.  And the further away I get from this, the scarier it is.

I know there’s lots of video I can pull up and watch, but I can’t do it.  He’d be right there and nowhere.  Nowhere I want him to be.  Like right in front of me – talking to me, singing to me, yelling at me.  Anything.  Anything to me.  Watching these tapes would be the most harrowing form of torture I can imagine.  So I must rely on the power of my brain to keep this sound, this voice, this anchor, safe for me. 

Can that last forever?