My first recollection of my mother’s voice was her laughter—she would sing silly songs or repeat nonsense verses, then laugh out loud with a high pitched shrill voice. That voice was pleasant to me and joyful. It would make me laugh. But other times, that same voice was piercing and uncomfortable, especially when she was angry, tense or upset. I wanted to cover my ears.

As a teenager, I would often react to her voice with harsh words or try to seek seclusion from its sound. I heard that same voice again as a young mother, tired and stressed, only this time it was directed at my own children. I was shocked to hear it come, not from her mouth, but my own. I vowed it would never be heard from me again, but it did, more often than I had hoped.

Over the years her voice grew quieter, softer, as mine did. As my mother aged her voice began to shake and quiver. Her laughter, though quieter now, returned more often. She was able to take life less serious than in the past.

My mother’s voice was silenced for a time, with tubes down in her throat. For two long months she struggled, worked to breathe on her own, to once again speak. Then a phone call and a brief introduction from my father, I heard it once again; her voice, scratchy from the tubes, softer and weak, but oh so wonderful to hear.

Two months later, her voice was silenced again—never to be heard in this mortal life. I yearn to hear my mother’s voice once again. My hope is that I will.

Photo by Pomegranates