21

The lightness in her voice,
Told me he was gone,
A brittle sound so very thin supported every note.
It was at once damasked in sorrow, hurt, regret,
And shame,
But in that moment,
I knew,
We’d never speak again.

The lightness in her voice,
Weighed heavily on my chest,
My breathing hitched and tears began,
My throat began to clench,
A buzzing started in the foreground,
Shock,
Faint hope,
Then black,
It all cascaded towards the doors,
Which groaned and shrieked, then cracked.

The lightness in her voice,
Held only love for me,
For even though she grieved a child,
That’s what she thought of me,
And so she worked to cover,
With her protective wings,
A mother always, even as,
She felt that dreaded sting.

The lightness in her voice,
Haunts me to this day,
Accompanying me in all my travels,
Sweet note that did betray,
A sadness,
More forlorn,
Than any I had heard,
Of loss and love and wistfulness,
Tied up with fear and rage.

That fragile tone,
Has power still,
And doubtless will endure,
Despite the boxes that we pile,
To hold against the door.
And my one hope,
My one last wish,
If I have any choice,
Is that I never hear again
The lightness in her voice.