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Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.
The sun. Man, how long do these New England winters last anyway? I mean, come on, this isn't funny anymore. It feels like a replay of the days of the Beast, and then it was still warm in L.A.
Okay, seriously now. I do miss the sunshine and the warm air and all the other stuff, sure, but it's no big deal. Not what I think of when I close my eyes, definitely. I miss voices, mostly. Mere when she's calling me to make me support her because she wants to stay longer at some party and I'm supposed to break the news to Mom. Mom when she's trying to sell me some new tv show she has discovered. Dad when when he mutters over his Sunday crossword puzzles and doesn't want anyone to disturb him except he doesn't get anywhere with the clues and needs help but can't bring himself to ask directly, so he does the face saving thing and mumbles till one of us picks it up.
Jasmine's voice, no matter what she says. I never got what the big deal was about how she looked like anyway, but here is the thing: she had the most beautiful voice I've ever heard, and that wasn't thrall, magic or anything like that. It was like velvet, like something to wrap yourself up in, and if you closed your eyes, you still were able to understand everything about her from that voice.
Emily's voice, when she started to speak. You could tell she hadn't very often, but she tried, and she kept switching between sounding like a little girl and sounding like her, Jasmine, until the end, when she had her own voice completely.
Father's voice. That's what I first remember about him, the sound of his voice, telling me to be quiet, and then some beasts attacked anyway and he fought them off. The sound of his voice singing, which he did to make me sleep as a child. Father rarely shouted, but you could hear him across the plains if he did. If he didn't, you could still hear him, or at least I could, because of the very precise way he spoke. Like every word as a block he had to chisel out. His voice was very low, and when I was a child, the contrast to mine confused me, because there were no other humans around, so I just figured his was the normal one and there was something wrong with mine. I thought it was because of them at first, of my birth parents. His voice never wavered. No traces of doubt anywhere in it.
I guess that told me early on I wasn't his true son. But each time I heard his voice, I wish I had been.
The sun. Man, how long do these New England winters last anyway? I mean, come on, this isn't funny anymore. It feels like a replay of the days of the Beast, and then it was still warm in L.A.
Okay, seriously now. I do miss the sunshine and the warm air and all the other stuff, sure, but it's no big deal. Not what I think of when I close my eyes, definitely. I miss voices, mostly. Mere when she's calling me to make me support her because she wants to stay longer at some party and I'm supposed to break the news to Mom. Mom when she's trying to sell me some new tv show she has discovered. Dad when when he mutters over his Sunday crossword puzzles and doesn't want anyone to disturb him except he doesn't get anywhere with the clues and needs help but can't bring himself to ask directly, so he does the face saving thing and mumbles till one of us picks it up.
Jasmine's voice, no matter what she says. I never got what the big deal was about how she looked like anyway, but here is the thing: she had the most beautiful voice I've ever heard, and that wasn't thrall, magic or anything like that. It was like velvet, like something to wrap yourself up in, and if you closed your eyes, you still were able to understand everything about her from that voice.
Emily's voice, when she started to speak. You could tell she hadn't very often, but she tried, and she kept switching between sounding like a little girl and sounding like her, Jasmine, until the end, when she had her own voice completely.
Father's voice. That's what I first remember about him, the sound of his voice, telling me to be quiet, and then some beasts attacked anyway and he fought them off. The sound of his voice singing, which he did to make me sleep as a child. Father rarely shouted, but you could hear him across the plains if he did. If he didn't, you could still hear him, or at least I could, because of the very precise way he spoke. Like every word as a block he had to chisel out. His voice was very low, and when I was a child, the contrast to mine confused me, because there were no other humans around, so I just figured his was the normal one and there was something wrong with mine. I thought it was because of them at first, of my birth parents. His voice never wavered. No traces of doubt anywhere in it.
I guess that told me early on I wasn't his true son. But each time I heard his voice, I wish I had been.
