I Collect Voices

The human face is an unreliable thing to count on. So many so alike after a hundred, after a thousand, indistinguishable after a million.

I do not remember you by your face, not often, for I remember people by the sound of their voice. The trained notes of a musician, the rise and fall of a singer, individual whispers and laughs in a crowd. The stifled smile of an introvert draped over a velveteen laugh, gentle sass and wit. The fervor of writers speaking of what they’ve hauled from the blissful ink.

I collect the voices I hear and cherish the voices that speak to me kindly. The voices that inspire me, the voices I admire. A face is familiar, but a voice is forever; the voice is the sound of the soul as much as the eyes are the windows in.

I do what I can to avoid the voices I shy away from, the harsh and angry notes that make what is small in my soul cower and cry. The curse of me is the surly tone of my expression will forever belie the gentler side.

I collect the voices that I miss when they’re gone, voices that make my heart skip, voices that breathe life into my ideas and give them sound. I collect voices while I can, I drink in every word, reasonable to absurd.

It is when I begin to forget these voices that I weep. It is when I can’t remember the sound of those who have moved on that I break, when my own voice shakes. The quirks and tones of the old voices I loved taken when I was younger, Gramps, Grandma Great, Aunt Bugs…

I long to hear those voices, and I cry when I hear their recordings, because close is not the same. It just brings more pain.

I cry when a voice makes my heart skip, because those are the ones I fear losing most. My best friend, my sister, my mother, my overseas brother, a waning grandmother, my father, the people who hold my heart unknowing.

My voice holds my heart, so please don’t speak over me; of that I have lived enough. My heart is a temperamental thing, unruly and loud. She can call you out and tear you down, she lashes out in my veins and escapes late at night, early in the day. It looks like frustration and rage, she’s afraid and circling a long-gone boxing ring, waiting for the bell to escape her cage.