It is funny how things are remembered.

There are things about my father I cannot remember. Like the sound of his voice. I know his voice was not loud, unlike mine. I know the tone of his voice was kind, unless a certain redheaded daughter was “testing his patience”. (I did that often. I often wonder who Patience was.) I remember the tone of his voice, waking me up at 2 am to give me that nasty pink liquid antibiotic, saying “we all have to take stuff we don’t like. I would not really give you something that would kill you.” after I protested.

But, I don’t remember the sound of his voice. I was not young when my father died. I was 25. I had 25 years of hearing it, but for the life of me I cannot hear it.  When I think of his voice, I just get a flat monotone voice of a newscaster, not a man from West Texas. And definitely not my father.

I don’t know why my mind has blocked out my father’s voice. I suspect it has to do with me not really wanting to admit he is gone. I do know I carry him with me in everything I do and say.

I wish I could remember the sound of his voice. I wish I could hear him on more time.